


let the river rush in, not wash away

by Kt_fairy



Series: let the river rush in [1]
Category: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: Anal Sex, Anxiety, Crossdressing, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Oral Sex, Period Typical Attitudes, Personal Growth, Post-Canon Fix-It, Sexual Content, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies, Trauma, do not repost to another site, dress uniforms hell yeah, internalised attitudes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-21
Updated: 2019-08-01
Packaged: 2020-07-10 00:08:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 27,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19896634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kt_fairy/pseuds/Kt_fairy
Summary: “It’s not something you wish known when you look like I do, I have learnt. ‘Handsomest man in the Royal Navy’ feeling…” he shot a look at Francis before bowing his face towards his teacup. “I had enough on the line, with my parentage, without everyone guessing how...how fine I felt in that dress. How soft and light and bright I felt, playing the very opposite of all I try to be.”OrMost people come home, boundaries are set, James (eventually) gets a dress.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So I watched The Terror a year ago, took all this time to let it settle, watched it again, and now I done did a dress!fic. Because it's a Fitzjames-in-drags' world and we're all just living in it. 
> 
> I researched this as well as I could, and in some places did what I wanted just to make things flow better. So I apologise for any glaring mistakes. 
> 
> (this fic is all written, I'm just editing chapters as I go)
> 
> Tag's will update with each chapter posted, and some tags refer to later chapters.

It felt disingenuous to luck, fate, and the almighty, to complain about discomfort when you had once been so very nearly dead; spending every hour at the mercy of the horror’s going on inside you and the one shadowing your every step. But, Francis supposed, almost rotting to death from scurvy and the lead was at least on a par with being the only sober man in a room full of stuffy Admiralty dolts all well into their port and stinking up the place with cigar’s.

At least it had been a fine dinner, and Francis had remained in a good humour throughout. Not only because it was his old friend James Ross’s table, but also because his own James Fitzjames (a Sir now, both of them where. Knighted for doing nothing more than surviving their own stupidity) was sat diagonally from him, being his entertaining self. 

James had been engaging with the ladies and charming with the men, always bringing Francis into conversation in his own gentle way. At any ridiculous statement or question thrown their way he had turned those dark eyes on Francis, and Francis would feel warmed that only he knew James well enough to identify the sardonic look in them. 

Now the ladies had departed to the drawing room like a flock of doves, and Francis had to withstand all this ‘Men’s Talk’. Not that anyone had anything worthwhile to say. 

“I say, Sir James,” burst forth a ruddy faced man Francis had not cared to remember the name of. “Were you posted to Malta?”

“Indeed I was, Boothby. It was upon that island that I took my lieutenants exam.”

“Yes…” This ‘Boothby’ said slowly, giving James a considering look. “Do you remember that fine comedy the officer’s put on for the men stationed on the island.”

Jame’s eyebrow quirked almost imperceptibly. “I do.”

“And do you, my good fellow,” the man sat back in his chair as he pointed his cigar at James. “Remember who did a turn as the Queen in that play? Who fair on caused a riot of good humour amongst the men?”

James pursed his lips a moment. Francis, who had heard many of James’ tales- first unwillingly, and then in desperation as the only proof they were both still living - adjusted himself in his chair, unsure as to why James paused or why this escapade was new to him. 

“I recall it impeccably," James finally said. "If it is the same play we are both thinking of, the Queen was my younger self.”

That caused a flurry of guffaws and laughter from around the room, and Francis felt his own eyebrows raise at the news. “I did not take you for a comedian, James.”

“I am full of good humour, Francis. As you well know,” James said as he turned to the head of the table. “Ross, did you know that I made this fellow laugh a full five times upon our walk to salvation! Each time I succeeded I felt as if the whole arctic might fade away and I was dreaming while safely in my berth with England still in sight.”

“Oh now!” Ross protested, smiling when he saw Francis wasn’t insulted. “I cannae stand for a fellow Celt to be so abused. The Irish sea might separate the land of our forefathers, but we are both of good cheer. So much cheer in fact,” Ross said as she pointed his glass of Port at James. “That I charge you to tell us of this whole episode, plot of the play and all, and we shall laugh until the Ladies wonder what has befallen us.”

“They shall know Fitzjames is telling a dashing story and come to listen at the door, no doubt,” a captain of Ross’ acquaintance said with a bite to his tone. His young wife had been taken with James, as most people tended to be, and the man had taken it with bad grace. 

Francis pitied the poor woman to be tied to such a jealous man. 

“Well,” James stood, adjusting his waistcoat as he went to stand by the fireplace “I have never been accused of shrinking before an audience, even an unseen one.”

A ripple of humour ran around the table at the retort, and before any more could be said James slid into his tale of being a midshipman upon Malta. He told stories well, Francis had never faulted him on that even when he hated him, and began at the beginning; setting the scene with an energetic young sailor waiting to hear the outcome of his lieutenants’ exams, and the mischief that lead to him taking a turn upon the stage for the men of the fleet and the garrison. 

He was erudite and amusing, leaning upon the fireplace as if only a year ago he had not been dying slowly in a place no map yet knew of. His hair had regained its old shine and pleasing thickness and was once again perfectly curled, and his voice was resonant and deep, not that broken thing Francis had feared would be the last sound he ever heard from him. 

The signs of their struggle were there if you looked hard enough. There was a slight lisp to some words that had not been there before, owing to the few teeth he had lost to scurvy, and a stiffness in his posture where his newly healed old bullet wounds still troubled him some days.

By the time Francis had stopped admiring him, a habit he was in no hurry to stop even if he tempted fate by not curtailing it, James had reached the play.

“...I will admit to you gentlemen, that I was most nervous. No greater test had been given to my younger self up until this point, for I was to stride out before the men - old weathered sea dogs and hardened soldiers. All who see few enough women that they know all too well what one looks like - and play _such_ a lady! Imagine my startlement when I stepped on stage and was met with cheers! My most daring lines, for there were many, were met with hoot’s, and every time the Queen left the stage the cry’s for her return were thundering. I dare say they were more amusing than I was.”

“Oh! Such modesty is unbecoming on you, Sir James,” Ross called, laughing into his port when James gave a flowery bow. 

“I would not claim the laughter owed to the play write.”

“And what a bawdy play write the fellow was!” The man who had brought the whole thing up called. 

“Do you know,” James said casually, “The men at the front of the stage were all jostling with one another to feel the hem of my dress as I passed. The thing was red, borrowed from the Maltese theatre, and covered in tassels, with these great puffy sleeves. It was very lavish. And I was found all these jewels and pearls to wear…” Francis watched James’s carefully curated posture relax as he described his costume, the happiness of the memory clear on his face. 

A thought came to Francis then. Of a flash of scarlet velvet thrown over the back of a chair in James's berth upon Erebus that, despite his lack of knowledge of women's fashions, Francis had known was a dress. He hadn’t said anything, nor indeed had allowed himself to think anything of it, as they had been trying to find a way to save lives at the time, and a newly sober Francis had been hoarding every atom of James’ friendship and loyalty like a man starved. 

James laughed suddenly, bringing Francis back to the plush dining room, and tossed a curl back off his face. “It’s the most damnable thing, who knew the Mediterranean Fleet would be so up on it’s London Fashions?” he said to the amusement of everyone in the room, the firelight catching in his eyes as he let them rest softly upon Francis.

* ***** *

Rescue had come in the form of Hudson’s Bay Company men. They were lead to them by Lady Silence’s _esquimaux_ who wished, in so many words, for the White Man to stop dying all over their land. 

A sentiment Francis could not help but wholeheartedly agree with. 

With great foresight a Navy doctor had disembarked from one of the ships in the bay and joined a Company surgeon on the trek to find them. He was an energetic young man named Jenkins who was dishing out Nettle oil and Lime juice and Laudanum before half the men had realised they had been saved.

They were all fed, and treated, and that night Doctor Jenkins and Mr.Goodisr had sat down with Francis over a cup of tea (tea! strong sweet tea like they made in Ireland) and explained, with no small amount of feeling, who amongst the survivors were beyond his means - or indeed anyone’s means - to help. 

“...of course, Mr.Goodsir and myself cannot see into the future,” the Welshman had said. “And being in the medical profession teaches you neither to under nor overestimate the human body's capacity to heal itself. Some we have named may survive, and others we have not may die. All I can say if that I am glad we met you when we did!”

“As am I, doctor. As am I,” Francis had smiled although he had felt James’ absence from his side like a gaping wound. They had become as close as two souls may be; James was his friend and his second and the only other person he had allowed to see his heart other than Sophia, and in return had been allowed to see the true James that no-one had ever known. 

This was where love lay, in all its forms, and Francis did not fear it. He had used up all his stores of fear a long while ago.

“Take Captain Fitzjames, another week and those old wounds would have…” Jenkins had trailed off at a sharp shake of the head from a suddenly exhausted looking Goodsir. He had not paused since escaping Hickey, working doubly hard to keep his Captain and friend patched up and breathing until rescue arrived. “Well,” Jenkins cleared his throat. “One doesn't like to talk of what if’s, especially if they are so morbid.”

“No,” Francis had agreed, gripping his tin mug so tightly it had burnt his hand. If James had died then the Tuunbaq might as well have taken Francis’ life and his soul. “Then you shall be doubly toasted on our arrival at the Bay, for he is a fine man.”

“Hear, hear!” Goodsir agreed quietly as Jenkins spoke.

“Indeed! I have never seen anyone in such a - forgive me - condition still maintaining such good humour. And while drinking lime juice!”

That night, once watches were set and those not long for this world visited, Francis had wound his way through new tents and the old weather worn ones until he found a tent he knew well. He had not expected to find a revitalised James inside, looking as fine as he had before all this calamity had fallen upon them, but Francis had still found himself disheartened to see James curled up on the excuse for bedding they had with only a skin of Hudson Bay Company fur to cover him, as limp as he had been this morning.

He had been alert enough to move over to allow Francis to settle next to him, and to pull his hand under his shirt to touch the clean bandages holding his reopened wounds together. “Is it even more hubris to think we might survive this yet, Francis?”

“I think we have used up all our hubris,” Francis had breathed into his hair that had still smelt of rot. “And may now dare to hope.”

"Hope," James had croaked the word as if it was as foreign to him as Netskillit. "But will there be joy Francis?"

"How do you mean?"

There had been silence as James stilled as if he had slipped off to sleep. Francis had watched him slumber too many time to be fooled by it it, but he had also been too exhausted to press the matter. He had simply followed suit, laying his head down to finally, for the first time in years, get a peaceful rest.

* ***** *

"Goodmorning James, you almost missed breakfast!"

"Port is a vile drink," James grumbled as he plonked down at a right angle to Francis at the table. “Wine is a vile drink. All drink is vile,” he dragged the teapot closer to himself and peered into it. 

“Daisy brought another pot when she heard you moving around,” France explained as he poured some milk into James’ cup. 

“I should find myself dead in a ditch if it were not for that girl,” James said as he downed his cup of tea and set about pouring another one. “Best maid in the whole damnable city.”

William Coningham, the son of the man who had raised James, had given them the run of his London home while they were on shore. He had invited them to stay with his family in Brighton where the air was cleaner and more suited to a sailor than the crowded city, but the Admiralty and Government demanded James and himself be present in the capital. William’s wife Elizabeth, who doted on James as if he were her own brother, had insisted on furnishing them with a housemaid to come in daily, correctly pointing out that sailor’s were not one’s for dusting. 

“She has a soft spot for you, James.”

James waved that away with a slice of toast that he ripped in half and set about massacring his eggs. “That is because I tell her she’s the best maid in the city, and give her any day off she requests.”

“She doesn’t ask me for days off.”

“That is because, Francis,” James grinned as he leant over to patter his finger’s up Francis’ arm and along his shoulder to tap him square on the nose. “You are such a great fearsome Captain of Her Majesty's Navy that servants flee your presence!”

“I see the tea has revived you,” Francis huffed. He batted James’ hand away, then, listening for the sound of Daisy’s step in the corridor, caught him by the cuff and pulled him close enough to drop a chaste kiss to his lips. “Rascal.”

“I say! Such abuse at such an hour!” James cried, blessing the shoulder of Francis’ coat with a kiss before returning to his breakfast.

Francis went back to flicking through The Times, sparing a comment or a smile as James recounted his opinions of last night’s dinner. “...of course I shall have nothing said against Anne Ross nor her very fine table. She has always been kind to you, and has graced me with that kindness too. And she had on such a fine yellow dress - I heard it remarked amongst the ladies as being the very Thing in fashion.”

“You were gossiping with the ladies?”

“Believe it or not they had quite forgotten I was there,” James said, which was such an impossibility that Francis raised an eyebrow at him. Even with all the pomposity and vanities stripped away James was far from forgettable. “Or I am simply so up on London fashion that they felt I was a natural addition to the conversation.”

Francis rolled eyes and went to turn back to the paper, before folding it up and setting it down on the table top. “Or they had prior knowledge of your turn on Malta.”

James paused with a bite of food almost to his lips, then narrowed his eyes at Francis as he chewed on it. “Oh, I couldn’t very well tell that story at Sir.John’s, table could I? Fop that I was, _that I am_ , amongst all you men of action and discovery. ‘ _Oh on Malta, I once played the part of a randy Queen in a bawdy play to entertain a bunch of sailors’_. Half of you thought me useless anyway.”

“Which was our folly, for we would not have survived without you.”

James swallowed hard, a darkness flashing across his face as he no doubt thought of those who did not survive Carnivale. “It’s not something you wish known when you look like I do, I have learnt. The ‘handsomest man in the Royal Navy’ feeling…” he shot a look at Francis before bowing his face towards his teacup. “I had enough on the line, with my parentage, without everyone guessing how...how fine I felt in that dress. How soft and light and bright I felt, playing the very opposite of all I tried to be. And I did not mind the attention it brought me either.”

Francis found himself surprised by that, but not alarmed or scandalised. James had to hide himself every day of his life, both his parentage and his proclivities, and that made him so very desperate to be _seen_. So why not disguise it all further in finery and elegance that could not be ignored, and were the very opposite of all he had to be in order to succeed in life; a dashing, brave, strong, sensible, upright Englishman.

Francis knew only too well what forfeits society meted out on you for falling short of those things.

"Do you know," James said as he sat back in his chair, crossing one long leg over the other. “That afterwards - I was still in my costume as someone had come across a couple of bottles of Claret and we were having a right old time backstage - a strapping young lieutenant from the garrison came up to me. I thought he had come about the Claret at first, and then the next thing I know I was being offered coin _for my services_.”

“Good God!” Francis gasped, only finding himself amused because there was a glint of humour in James’ eyes. 

“It was a thrill to have a man risk such daring for me. But sent him packing, of course.”

“Did he not offer you enough money?”

“Now who is being a rascal! And a cheeky one at that!” James picked up the newspaper just to whack it on the edge of the table. “I’ll have you know that I gave that lieutenant a flea in his ear and I am more than capable of doing the same to you, Sir Francis Crozier!” 

The image of a barely twenty year old James, dressed in pearls and taffeta and caked in stage make-up, sending a commissioned officer packing with a few choice words, maybe even brandishing a fan, had him bursting out laughing. 

James looked as pleased as he always did when he made someone laugh - like a boy discovering for the first time that he was funny. He held his hand out to Francis under the table, and Francis took it at once. “I know what you are thinking, and you’d be right. I rapped him on the knuckles with my fan like I…” James had to hold back his own amusement, “... like I was a widowed aunt.” 

James’ rich laugh soon joined Francis’, and they filled he plush dining room with their amusement.

Someday’s it felt wrong to sit in their nice rooms with full bellies and be jolly while men who they had lived with and cared for lay un-buried half the world away. Some day’s neither of them could bare to eat, the memories of starvation so close that even the thought of food caused nausea, and a full roaring fire often felt like a luxury they did not deserve. 

Yet, even if time cannot heal all wounds it can still soothe their edges. So on some mornings they would, without propriety and like much younger men, laugh themselves to tears over breakfast.

* ***** *

They had rested for just a week at the Hudson Bay outpost that their rescuers had set out from. Dr.Jenkins had advised them to rest for much longer but a week was all it had taken for news of their appearance to reach not only the Canadian government and the Navy, but the press also. 

“They want to parade us through streets a’ Toronto as ‘ero’s,” Blanky had muttered upon seeing a headline. He was still woozy from the Laudanum he had been given after the doctor’s had to take even more of his leg, but not even opiates and gangrene could keep the old Yorkshireman down. “All we did was not fucking die.”

“The English give glories to anything, Tom,” Francis had said drolly. “Even a disaster.

“An’ what do the Irish do?” Blanky had asked as he chewed on the stem of his unlit pipe. 

“Make it into a song, most likely,” Francis said with a shrug. 

“Get on wi’ it then, Frank.”

“What?”

“Sing us a song!” Blanky had poked at him with his pipe until Francis had batted him away with a carefree laugh.

“Fuck _off_ , Tom.”

“At least I shan’t be able te be paraded about a Colonial town,” Blanky muttered, pointing at his missing leg with the stem of his pipe. “ ‘ow is our Captain Fitzjames takin’ the news?”

“He’s after a haircut, if you must know,” Francis had said with clear fondness in his voice. 

“I am glad,” Blanky had said after a moment’s thought, “That all this has not changed ‘im so very much. Even good men can be fussin’ fops, I suppose.”

A Schooner had arrived for them on the next tide to take them down the Saint Lawrence River, where they stayed as guests of the Governor until a ship arrived to bring them back to England. The Schooner had carried boxes of new, if not all that fresh, uniforms for them, and it had heartened Francis to see his men looking as they should - clean and neat and on their way to healthy as they chatted and joked amongst themselves and the crew of the ship. It had heartened him even more to come to the bow and see James stood there as tall and elegant as he had ever been, even if he was still markedly gaunt and pale, his hair verging on ragged under his cap. 

He had been leaning on the gunwale slightly, either from exhaustion or a slouch that he would never have allowed himself three years ago, his dark eyes glinting as he took in all the lush greenery that was foreign after so long surrounded by only dull colours. James had noticed his presence after a while, and Francis had watched his expression shift from surprised, to happy, to guarded. 

"Is a beautiful land, Canada," James had said as if needing to explain himself. "And yet I cannot remember England enough to know if it compares. So I admire the view and hope it comes back to me."

Francis, in a swell of boldness so strong he did not even think of how voices carry aboard ship, replied. "I find I am looking at a view I hope I shall never forget."

As soon as he had spoken Francis he had cursed himself. He was a foolish, blunt, softhearted fool who embarrassed himself in all matters not to do with sailing. Their closeness had grown from a desperate need for another body to cling to, from grief and the desire to feel alive, nothing more. Francis was nearly two decades James’ senior, and had never been half as beautiful as James who, even then, had looked like something from a painting.

He had been about to flee when he had seen a flush creep over James’ high cheekbones. “I. Well I…” James swallowed, and then held out a hand to wave Francis closer. They had stood shoulder to shoulder with the sun on their faces until James had asked. “Do you mean it Francis? I mean to say...did it mean more than just companionship and comfort so far from home?”

Francis had admitted then to only feeling for two people other than James; one an older Midshipman who Francis had adored in a chaste, childlike way, and, decades later, Sophia Cracroft. 

“She is who I mean,” James had breathed. “She, who ordered you here and you obediently followed, even though she treated you so appallingly.”

“She had her reasons, but…”

“I shall not make it hard for you, if it is so,” James had said, voice clipped and precise like when Francis had first met him. “I have been put aside before when civilisation was reached. No doubt it shall happen again before the Navy kills me.”

“For Christs sake James,” Francis had growled. “Will you listen! Miss Cracroft had her reasons, and I respected them. And I am no longer that man. I have seen things, terrible things, most terrible of which was you fading before my very eyes,” he had taken James by the elbow and squeezed. “If you would have me, old man that I am…”

“ _Old man_ , indeed! You walked out of the Arctic in a better state than I, Francis. By Christ!” James had sounded utterly fond, and had slanted a sly look down at Francis that was fair warning for what he had to say next. “And I rather think it has been _you_ who have had _me_.”

Francis merely raised an eyebrow even as he felt hot under his uniform at the memory of James backed up against the wall of his berth while they engaged in a sad, wilting approximation of of desire. 

“I would very much like to remain with you Francis, in any way I might.”

Francis had turned to look up river to the smudge of Toronto on the horizon, giving James’ elbow another squeeze before letting go. “Then remain together we shall.” 

* ***** *

He awoke with a start, gasping in air that burned his lungs. Burned and prickled like the very ice that surrounded him had begun to infect his insides.

He gasped again, and was confused as to why the bright white ice had become dark, that the sharp stones beneath his knees had become soft and smooth.

He blinked and the image of James, wasted and in agony to the point of death, became a pillow. The rushing creak of the ice dissolved, and in its place came James' smooth voice, "Its a nightmare, Francis. Its only a dream. You are in London, Tom and Jopson and Hartnell and Bridgen's and all are alive. You are safe."

Francis willed his grip to loosen on his pillow, his breathing ragged in his own ears as he turned to look at James' back lit shadow curled over him. He tried to speak but his mouth was too dry, and a glass of water was held to his lips for him to sip before he tried again. "You died."

"I am here Francis," James smoothed his hand off Francis' shoulder and down his arm to grasp his hand. "I live."

"You…" Francis sat back on his heels from where he had been almost on all fours, turning his hand so he could grip James’ fingers. “You were in agony. Almost blind, bleeding, hardly able to breathe. You begged for mercy from me, for help to ease your way, and yet you could not...I had to…”

“It is all right, Francis.”

“I couldn't get you home. You died in a place no map knew of...”

“It was not real!” James took his hand and slipped it through the open neck of his nightshirt, pressing it against his sleep warm chest so Francis could feel the beat of his heart under his palm. “The Euphrates did not kill me, the Tartar’s did not kill me, and neither did the Passage. There is no guilt in dreaming of what could have been, and dreaming of a mercy at that.”

Francis nodded and took a moment to collect himself, trying to calm his own uneasy heart. “No. I do not believe that if I had hurled you overboard into the Arctic ocean you would have even caught a chill.”

“It would have been a pleasant, revitalising swim,” James’ voice sounded suddenly close, and then his lips were pressing to Francis’ hairline. “I dream of my death sometimes, you know. And Harry's and Dundy’s and…everyone’s really. But not your’s. Not even my darkest thoughts can countenance such a thing, it seems.”

Francis turned his head so he could catch James’ lips with his, moving his hand from inside his shirt to cup his neck. "Thank you, James. I'm sorry I woke you."

"You have helped me through worse than a nightmare," James murmured against his cheek before sitting back enough that he passed into the candle light, illuminating the state of his hair and the general disarray he was in from rushing from his room into Francis’. "Move over, I’ll lay down next to you until the fright passes.”

“Oh will you now?” Francis smiled to himself as he shuffled over and sat against the headboard. “I’m sure you’ve used that excuse before.”

“Fear not, I’m too tired to ravish you tonight,” James said as he swung his long legs onto the bed and settled next to Francis. “A letter from Plymouth came today from Dundy…”

“I saw it on the mantle. How is Le Vesconte?”

“Oh, up to all sorts of mischief and calamity. Would hearing me recount the tales bore you enough to sleep?"

“You only bore me with repetition James, not with style.”

“Ah then, as I have received such a glowing review I must not leave my public waiting,” James said drily, patting down the blankets until he found Francis’ hand which he clasped gently. “His family home is near to Plymouth, as you know, and for as long as I have known him his sister has been haranguing him to introduce her to some dashing Naval officer in the port. And as Dundy knows the species rather well he has always tried to put her off. Would only let me to visit because he knew of my proclivities…”

“Even back then?”

"Hmm? Oh yes, even then. He never gave a fig about it either - he’s a fine fellow, is Dundy. Anyway - so it seems that Miss Le Vesconte had secured herself an invite to an Officers ball without his knowledge... ”

Francis was awake to hear about the mistaken identities and the dropped punch bowl, felt his eyes grow heavy as he listened to James’ soothing baritone tell of forged dance cards. After that he knew no more of his dark room and his bed and James’ warmth. 

Instead...

_It is as stuffy as all balls are. They are_ _always held in too bright rooms that are not always large enough, and you spend the whole time avoiding ladies skirts or the epaulettes of the other officers. The music is also played at such a volume to be heard over the chatter that the guests have to speak at even greater volumes to be heard._

_The punch bowls are full to the brim with a clear green liquid that laps at the scalloped edges of the glass bowls, swirling around the base of the giant bergs of ice that tower up towards the ceiling._

_Francis looks from one of those sparkling bergs that is creaking gently to itself, and over to a crowd that has formed across the dance floor. In a dress of pale purple taffeta with black ribbons is James, hair perfectly curled against his cheek and his bare shoulders wonderfully olive brown and smooth. Officers and fine Ladies and Gentlemen all crowd for his attention, but, as Francis finds himself drawn through the swirling dancers without taking a single step, they are imperiously batted aside. A long, strong arm is held out to him, and an elegant gloved hand beckons him closer and closer and closer until James is in his arms, the scent of macassar and rose heavy in the air..._

Francis woke for a moment then, the guttering candle allowing him a view of James’ sleeping form. He was curled up facing him, knee’s brought up to almost touch Francis’ thighs, with his hair spread out on Francis’ creased pillow. Francis blinked at him, brain still too sleep muddled to keep this sight as a memory, and slipped back into a dreamless slumber. 

* ***** *

The Governor of Canada, one Sir Charles Cathcart, and his wife, Lady Cathcart, were the most gracious hosts. An old barrack block had been cleared for the men of the expedition to stay in while in Toronto, and they wanted for neither food nor care. 

Sir Charles was a veteran of the war’s against Napoleon, and had been full of enough stories to rival even James (which had given Francis and Le Visconte no end of fun while James had been suitably horrified by such a betrayal). He was also an eminent Geologist which won him an admirer in Mr.Goodsir, who had been most pleased to find they were both members of eminent Scientific societies in Edinburgh. 

He also seemed to understand their need to relearn how to live in society, and was kind about any faux pas or mistakes anyone made. As were his wife and daughters who were, as always, very taken with the young officers even in their exhausted, sickly state. 

None more so than James, who had caused a veritable din of giggles when, after a luncheon held for the surviving officers, he had turned to the Governor to ask, “Sir Charles, may I ask. Where does one get a capital hair cut in this city?”

Francis had told him later, as he sat on his bed in the room they had been given to share for the duration of their wait in Toronto, that the comment had not merited the jolly reaction. To which James had said, as he folded his borrowed trousers, that he had been in all earnest and had not understood the laughter himself. 

“Unless in the three years we have been away men no longer cut their hair,” he had peered at himself in the looking glass, twirling a lock of hair around his finger and huffing when it refused to go back into it’s curl. “I shall have to adorn myself in bows and ribbons.”

“You’d look prettier than ever.”

James had looked at him, eyes unreadable in the candle light, and covered the distance between them in one stride. He had loomed over Francis then, the soft flickering light catching in every sunken feature of his face as if it were a skull. Francis shuddered like he had never done while on the pack ice and had reached out to James, feeling his warmth and the solid nature of his body, assuring himself he lived. 

James had swayed on his feet, resting his hands on Francis’ wrists. “You will have to stand. My back...I cannot bend to kiss you.”

Francis had stood, squeezing James’ waist as he went up onto his toes to kiss him. Squeezing harder when James had held his face and sighed into his mouth. 

The bows and ribbons did not come. Instead James had cut a dash on the morning of their departure with his borrowed coat tailored as much as it could be to fit his long frame, and his hair newly cut and set in soft curls that smelled faintly of makassar oil.

Francis could only catch the scent because James stayed at his shoulder the whole time, only leaving Francis' side to attend to the men or if spoken to by the Captain of the paddle sloop sent to retrieve them. He had been the very image of a dutiful officer, in fact all the officers had, all upright and correct and giving Francis their full support. 

The spectre of blame had been hanging over them back then, unsure who the Admiralty would condemn as the one responsible for this disaster. James knew how to navigate the good opinion of senior officers and the public and so had presented a united front of senior officers, not allowing one crack to show for blame to slip through and land at Francis’ feet.

He had done the same on their arrival back at Greenhithe, reminding the men not to let joy go to their heads and to remember their discipline when they saw what was waiting for them on the dock; banners and bands and swirling crowds pressing close to what looked to be half of the Admiralty. 

And Sophia.

Francis spotted her bright hair as the ship pulled alongside its mooring, and felt his heart leap out of habit more than anything. She was standing with the Ross’, her face turned towards the ship as her eyes searched for someone he knew she would not find, neither her Uncle Sir John nor Francis as he had been.

He took a moment to look at her, how lovely and dear she was, before turning to James who had been pretending that he had not seen her. He had caught his eye with a smile, and then turned to the men who had gathered eagerly on the deck. 

“Men!” Francis had called, and all stopped their celebration to turn to him. “A last word from me before we set foot on home soil again. I promised to bring you home, and to bring with us the names and deeds of our friends and brothers who did not. I may have fulfilled that promise to you, but you have also fulfilled it in yourselves. You have brought yourself to this point, you have brought us all home. I am honoured to have served with such fine and distinguished men, and I thank you _all_ for bringing me home safely with you.”

His speech, such as it was, had been met with a cheer and shining eyes, and everyone had come forward to shake his hand as if he were a most dear friend. Francis had been unused to this display of genuine affection of a crowd, and had found himself almost overcome with emotion when James had shouted from his side "Three cheers for yourselves, Lads!" and had led the call that echoed out from the ship.

The gathered crowd had cheered greatly when Francis had stepped off the ship with James at one shoulder and Lt.Little at the other. Where as three years ago he would have spitefully relished such recognition, at that moment he could only think of those who had not lived to see this.

Sir.John Ross had grunted, "A rumour trickled in from Canada. Franklin is dead, I take it?" as he shook his hand, and Francis had answered, "Lost in '47 sir. Buried upon the ice," which wasn't much of a lie, all considered, but it still felt heavy on his tongue as the news rippled through those gathered. 

James Ross had been on him then, shaking his hand and clapping him on the arms, tears in his eyes as if he had been the one who had just sighted home. "Francis! It's good to see you. It's so very good to see you, old boy. When we heard reports of the survivors...you know how things become confused. We feared so greatly...it’s so good to see you!"

It had all become a whirl of welcome and congratulations from then on. Francis was glad of their stay and send off in Toronto that had allowed them to become somewhat used to so many people again. He had come face to face with Sophia for only a moment, long enough to see the shock on her face. She had made to take his hand but he had kept them behind his back, his own fingers grasping onto James’ cuff as if the contact would stop the swelling crowd from overwhelming him. 

He had given her a small nod. Had said something proper and appropriate about his sadness at her Uncle’s death and how glad he was to see she was in good health. She had gazed at him with such sadness, but before he could catch her reply he had been whisked away to the long line of carriages and carts that were to take them on to the Naval hospital at Greenwich.

It was only when they were in the bumpy seclusion of the carriage that Le Vesconte, dependable and loyal to the last, had put his head (that was even more prematurely silver than it had been a year ago) into his hands and crumbled. His apologies had been muffled by assurances from Edward Little that such emotions were understandable, his own voice choked with emotion.

James, of course, had set his arm around his old friend, muttering comforts to him. His eyes had been on Francis though, a relief in their dark depths that was only partly due to their arrival home. He had not expected Francis to withhold seeing Sophia again, and Francis had never quite found it in himself to blame him.

In the coming months he would be knighted, lauded, invited twice to Buckingham Palace to meet the Queen and Prince Consort. All things that would have made him suitable and proper to marry an heiress like Sophia, the thing he thought had been his one desire in life and now did not want. 

It was foolish and damnably dangerous to tie himself so fully to James. Yet when James barked a laugh, or goaded him into good cheer, or lay his head on Francis’ shoulder, he found that he did not care one jot.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> on the upped chapter count - Chapter two grew very massive so I've split it into two in the place I felt was a good spotfor (an ad break) a split. So sorry if it ends a bit abruptly?
> 
> Also it get's very Internalised Period Typical Attitudes as some points in here, just FYI

_Don Giovanni_ had always been a favourite of James’ ever since his time on Malta. The progression of his Lieutenants exams had been... _slow_ , if he were to be honest, and James had filled the time not spent larking by taking trips to the distinguished theatre on the island. 

Word of it had spread of course - of his fondness for the opera that is, not the mess of his exams - for even the most idle of statements spoken at a ball or banquet could have made it's way around half of the fine parlour's in the city within a matter of days, and he had found himself with tickets gifted to him from the Royal Opera House. 

“I say Francis, look at this,” he had waved them at Francis from where he was leaning on the mantle, and laughed raucously at the tirade the Irishman let out when he realised they were opera tickets. 

“You didn’t have to accompany me, you know. l do have friends who would have leapt at the chance for outing _gratis,_ if only to look at the ladies,” James said as they made their way up the main staircase of the grand theatre, a flurry of excited whispers following their progress. 

It might be immodest to admit, but as James was tall and well liked and not terrible in appearance he was used to drawing a certain amount of attention. Having one’s image printed in Gazettes and Newspapers had increased it all somewhat, but glances and the odd forward introduction were nothing he could not withstand. Especially when bolstered by Francis who, as an old hand at all this after his turn about the Antarctic, seemed to have resolved to take no notice of any of it.

“You did not wish for me to join you?” he smiled knowingly.

“Of course I do. I wish for you to enjoy what I enjoy, and to take an interest in what interests you.”

“Then all is in order, and I am glad to be here. In my fashion,” Francis admitted, tugging at the belt of his dress uniform. He was purposefully ignoring a young lady, dressed in a green that made her auburn hair vibrant, who was trying to catch his eye. She was pretty, and obviously from a well to do family, and James had to school a glare from his face. 

Five years ago no young lady would have glanced twice at Francis, would have been annoyed at the mere presence of this ill at ease Irishman! It was only that he was now knighted and doubly famous that everyone wished to know him. 

Renown had always been what James had striven for in his determination to live a life that outshone that of his dismal sire. Only now, with all frippery stripped away, did he really come to see how hollow it all was, and how ridiculous the people were who put so much stand by it.

At a nudge from who James assumed was her mother the young lady turned her coy gaze to James, the ribbons laced through her hair bouncing delightfully. James felt a tingle run through his fingers in a desire to touch the delicate little things, and yet made a point of looking away from her and to Francis who was glancing between him and the lady.

The lamplight was catching in the flecks of gold amongst his hair, and made the blue of his eyes as warm as - if you will pardon the florid prose - the Indian ocean at sunrise. It smoothed the beloved lines of his face also, and with his strong figure filling out his uniform James thought he looked very well. 

He slipped his hand into the crook of Francis' elbow tugged him along after him. “Come, we have a box I believe. Let’s escape all this.”

Francis didn't put up a fight, in fact he took the ticket from James to help find the damned thing sooner. 

They kept to the back of the box while the theatre filled, hoping to avoid any more of the curious gazes they had received upon arrival. They bent their heads together while James reminded Francis of the plot of the opera, placing a comradely hand on his arm and squeezing in a most un-comradely way.

They moved their chairs forward when a tone came from the orchestra and the lamps were dimmed, James leaning on the edge of the box in his excitement for the opera to begin. He drew back when a man in a fine suit stepped before the curtain, feeling his heart clench in his chest as he watched him call for silence.

"Before tonight's performance," the man said in a clear voice, "The Royal Opera House and Company would like to offer our respects and salutations to the fine Captains of the Passage Expedition who are amongst us tonight," he swung a gloved hand up towards their box with effortless elegance, and James squared his shoulders as if for battle as the rustle of several hundred people turning to look at them filled the auditorium. "Sir Francis Crozier, and Sir James Fitzjames."

" _God's balls,"_ Francis growled as applause _r_ ang out, but James only partly heard him.

This situation called for a Hero of the China War and the valiant Captain of theErebus, not the James who had been as excited as a child over the forthcoming spectacle. He stood to elegantly accept the applause, aware of the very tilt of his head and the angle of his arms; he had to be gracious but not grovelling humble, all while looking as upstanding as a captain of Her Majesty's Navy should. 

Francis stood stiffly next to him, nodding his head to all corners of the auditorium before sitting down quickly when the applause died down. James followed with a flourish that he resented himself for, and arranged himself in a state of elegant relaxation for the eyes he could still feel turned their way.

He was conscious of himself for most of the first scenes, unable to enjoy the opera fully knowing that he was being looked at, being examined and judged like the bloody prize horse he had made himself into. They would find him wanting on a closer inspection; when one bought a horse you checked the state of its teeth, and his lower jaw was sorely lacking a few.

Never before had he felt so uncomfortable like this, so aware of himself, nor so strangled by a uniform that had always been a form of defence from the truth and the world. He fancied he could hardly breath, curling his hands so tightly his fingernails were digging into his palms through the smart white gloves he was wearing.

“James,” Francis’ said softly, the touch of his hand on James’ leg making him jerk around to look at him. 

He did not know what Francis saw in that moment; maybe it was the man he had first hated, or maybe just a poor, ragged imitation of him. Or maybe he saw right through this practised shell with the ease of a lover and a friend and a commander. Whoever the James Fitzjames was who was sat before him earned a look of understanding from Francis as he let his hand drop until he could tangle their fingers together.

James was surprised by such daring, and smiled at Francis who flashed a wink at him before looking back to the stage with as much vague interest as he ever summoned for opera. James looked at him one moment longer as he took a deep breath, then another, willing himself to relax.

He ended up slouched somewhat in his seat, humming along quietly to his favourite parts of the music. Even tapping his foot along to one part, which was something he had always been told not to do as a child as it was his Latin blood showing. But no one leapt up and called him a fraud, and he did not feel one ounce less English for it. 

He gave Francis’ fingers a squeeze, and smiled openly - if in the direction of the stage - when Francis squeezed back.

Much, much later that night, after they had tumbled out of their uniforms while tumbling into bed, James came across one of Francis' cravats. James had bought it for him and, being a sentimental old sea dog, Francis kept it in pride of place on his dressing table. It was black silk shot through with dark blue of the same, so fine that it almost glimmered in the candlelight. 

He glanced over his shoulder at Francis who was flopped out on the bed, eyes closed as his breath slowly evened out. James chewed at his bruised bottom lip, forgetting himself a moment as he drank in the freckled, masculine sturdiness of him, before turning back to his ablutions . 

He dropped the cloth into the washbasin when he had finished wiping the mess from his skin, dried his hands, and then reached out to lay his hand over the cravat, marvelling at it's softness.

He thought of the ribbons he had seen upon the ladies dresses tonight, of the silk skirts flowing like tide water from their waists. Of the soft velvet of that dress he had found upon Erebus. 

James lifted the cravat and set it against his collarbone, feeling his breath catch at the cool, soft, pleasant slide of the silk against his skin. For but a moment he thought of how it might feel if it touched every inch of him, to be all he was aware of as he stood light and so pretty, disguised fully from the world.

But it was just for a moment, and James refolded the cravat and set it down quickly. He turned back to the bed and tried not to look guilty when he found Francis watching him.

Francis had a skill for saying a thing and having you bear your whole soul in return. James feared it sometimes, as he did now, and almost sighed in relief when instead of speaking Francis simply held out his hand to him. James took it as he curled up on the bed beside him, propping his head up on his fist as he smiled down at Francis. 

"You look very fine in the candlelight," James told him.

"That is because you can hardly see me," Francis muttered, dissolving into laughter as James seized him and covered him in kisses.

* ***** *

“I heard tell you attended the Opera this last week,” Sophia asked as she pulled the lid from a hat box to peer inside. It was not proper to check one's order from the dressmakers when one was receiving guests, especially if said guests were a man, but this was _Francis_. And they had never been entirely proper with one another.

“James received an invite to watch _Don Giovanni_ , as it is a favourite of his. I, as you have probably guessed, was merely a bystander.”

Sophia laughed to herself, well aware of what Francis thought of the faux opulence and weight of opera, and asked. “Did you enjoy it?”

“In my way, yes,” Francis said with a smile that spoke of gentle secrets she was not to be privy to. “James is the authority on such things. He said he liked it well enough, but we were applauded before the performance and it put him out of sorts for a while.”

“Oh dear," Sophia said in genuine concern. "How so?”

“He," Francis shifted in his seat. "He held himself differently, as if he was the one on stage. Performing the dashing officer.”

“Might I be bold in saying that he _is_ a dashing officer.”

“He is, but not all the time,” Francis muttered, not having to add ' _not around me'_ for Sophia to know it. 

“How is Sir James now?” Sophia asked as she opened a box with a new evening gown inside of it.

Francis paused before speaking, as he had done every time he had been asked directly about Fitzjames. It had been what had given him away to her, of course. Francis was like an open book to those who cared to know him. 

She had ached for him at first, thinking his gentle heart had once again attached itself to someone he could never have. She remained quiet on the subject, determined to be a good friend and confident now that the strings tying them together had been severed (she had known it from the moment she had seen him at Greenhithe, and had mourned the loss greatly. For she had loved him, even if society and propriety could not allow it). Francis had seemed happy though, not desperate and hurt like he had always been with Sophia, and a smiled had often flitted over his face whenever she had asked after Fitzjames.

Then, on one of the occasions she had accompanied her Aunt Jane to the Admiralty to see about finding Sir John’s body to bring home, she had seen the newly made Sir James Fitzjames for the first time since the return. He was handsome in a way that could not help drawing the eye, still straight of limb and with a fine head of thick dark hair even after all he had suffered. He had been stood speaking with a group of other epauletted men, and Sophia had happened to spare him a glance when his exotic dark eyes had landed so gently upon Francis who was huddled in a corner talking to James Ross. 

It was a gentleness that could not be mistaken, and Sophia found herself to be very content for them both. Francis was happy because Fitzjames, who was likeable and amusing, made him so despite what society and propriety said, and Sophia could neither resent nor condemn either of them for that.

“He is in good spirits," Francis said as he stood and came closer to the table Sophia was stood at. "Letters from his friends who are not currently tied to London and dry land, as we are, keep him entertained. He purchased some sketching materials last week, and has drawn some images of the ships and the ice and...our fellows, amongst other things, that are really quite fine even to my untrained eye.”

“You sell yourself short, Francis. Truly beautiful and well made things do not need an expert eye to recognise it, it simply is.”

She glanced up at him when all she received was a hum in reply, and found his attention had been drawn fully to the box she had just opened. Sophia frowned as Francis had never so much as complimented her on a dress before, and watched him as he looked down at the pale pink taffeta with a considering look on his face. He pulled a hand from behind his back, and Sophia blinked in shock as he reached out to touch the lace on the bodice.

“Francis?”

He started, taking a sharp step back from the box. “Yes, Sophy?”

“What on earth are you…” Sophia turned to the box, looking between the dress and Francis' caught expression before smiling. “Are you considering a fine gown, Francis?”

“What!” Francis rumbled, looking both guilty and surprised all at once. “No I am not!"

“Then why do you admire the latest fashions so?” Sophia teased, then leaned in closer to say. “Is the Admiralty changing the uniforms so drastically?”

“We are all to take to the pacific in petticoats and white kid gloves,” Francis muttered, a smiling pulling at his mouth when Sophia laughed again. 

“What a sight that shall be. Ribbon’s also?”

“The finest blue ones.”

Sophia looked back at the box, touching the taffeta as she put on a coy look. “Or is it a lovely young lady you’re looking to purchase a fine gown for?”

Francis shook his head. “You know that to be false.”

“Not a young lady…?” Sophia drew herself up and said _sotto voce_. “Your wife maybe?” It was daring of her to say what with her history of hurt with Francis, but he did not look attacked or mocked by her words. In fact he flushed and ducked his head as Sophia asked, “Looking for a smart day dress to bring out her rich complexion?”

She was teasing, of course, as had always been their way with one another, and Sophia expected a retort, or for him to play along, but Francis was silent. She let him be as they stood with just a dress box between them, knowing him to have become more thoughtful in his years on the ice. Less rash of temper. More considered. 

“James know’s more of fashions than I ever have,” Francis finally said quietly. “And I dare say of women’s also. He would have more of an eye for what suited... _his_ complexion.”

An upbringing in the politest of society mean that Sophia could easily school surprise from her face, making sure she reacted barely to that admission. The emotion between them may have changed, but the depth of it never would, Sophia hoped. Even though what Francis had just shared was scandalous, _ruinous_ for him to admit and for her to know, she still felt the warmth of his trust deep in her belly. And would do nothing to cool it. 

“Rich colours. Those suit a darker complexion,” Sophia said conversationally. “I believe a scarlet might suit such deep brown eyes. Or - I once attended a ball where the wife of the Spanish Ambassador, a beautiful dark woman, wore a gown in the finest lilac silk that sparkled and caused quite a stir…” she glanced at Francis whose’ face was doing something very peculiar. “In fact Sir.James looks very well in the dark blue of his uniform, and I believe he once had a waistcoat of dark plum which suits him very well.”

Francis’ eyes widened slightly, nodding slowly as he took the information in. “I...well,” he looked around, set his shoulders, then glanced out of the window “How goes Lady Jane’s fundraising campaign?”

He was ending that conversation, and Sophia could do nothing else but allow him to. It was his delicate business to conduct, and besides, if he _were_ married she would not dare intrude upon what was between him and his wife. 

Although, she supposed as she gave an empty answer to an empty question, were he and James not as husband and wife? This was not a sordid affair taking place in a seedy bordello; they lived together in the Coningham's beautiful house off Regent’s Park for goodness sake. They were often seen in society together, and treated one another with such gentleness it was palpable, their slight touches so full of affection and respect that they practically sparked.

It would be a lie to say that Sophia had not imagined what it might be like between them; she had such intimate knowledge of Francis, and had imagined James as she had been, receiving such...passion and virility. 

She cleared her throat when she found her mind wondering, and put the lid back on the dress box. She would certainly _not_ think of Francis and a new wife in such a way, and if James was to Francis whatever a masculine version of a wife was, then he deserved the same respect from her. And her friendship and her support and her aid.

Even in this.

* ***** *

Francis was out doing goodness knows what with Tom Blanky. He could not be drinking, Francis had gone through too much to quit the stuff to ever touch a drop again, but Blanky would be, and he was a rowdy fellow even when sober. 

James smiled to himself and abandoned his sketch of Goodsir’s silhouette for one of Blanky waving his cane around threateningly as he directed the boats through the ice. The Royal Geographical Society had requested some descriptions of the journey for yet another piece they were doing and Francis had encouraged James to give them images from his recollections for them to print instead. James suspected it was because Francis was fed up to the back teeth with going over it all again and again (and the nightmares it always brought), but he had appreciated the encouragement and compliments to his skill none the less. 

He had mentioned it all to Harry when James had visited the man not two days ago. They had spoken for a while of how it calmed James to put an image from his mind down onto paper, how nightmares did not hunt him so vigorously, and Harry had pondered on the cathartic effects of such things. Had surmised that, much the same as speaking of bad thoughts, putting them down onto paper might also help one confront and conquer them.

James thought over this as he looked at his latest image of the boats hauling through the pack ice. He had noted that the aura of trepidation which had been over them at the time was absent, replaced by an optimism that came only with hindsight. He was indulging in the terrible habit of worrying the end of the pencil with his teeth as he considered what, if anything, should be done about it when a knock came at the door. 

It was Daisy’s afternoon off, so James stood and went to the door. It was a delivery of two large garment boxes that were placed neatly in the hallway before James had finished reading the delivery notice. 

"It all seems in order, but I cannot say who this anonymous person is who has ordered it…" James certainly hadn’t, and Francis wouldn’t have suffered the tailors without dragging James with him.

"If I may, sir. Maybe a relative has placed an order in London and gave your address for delivery? We see that a lot, sir."

"Good lord, I hope not," James muttered, and smiled at the delivery man as he handed the notice back to him.

“I know the feeling well, sir,” the man said sagely, took a good look at James, and then cleared his throat. “Sir. Might I be so bold as to ask to shake your hand, sir?" The man asked, trying to be subtle about wiping his palm on his trousers. "I would be greatly honoured to say I have shaken the hand of Sir.James Fitzjames, arctic explorer."

James was taken aback for a moment, and felt himself blush, but he held out his hand all the same. "Of course, my good man. Of course. The Discovery Service values a little boldness."

Such politeness was a welcome change to blurted questions fuelled by speculation and rumour, yet all the same James found himself exhaling a great sigh of relief when he closed the door behind him. 

He went to inspect one of the boxes, and could not for the life of recognise the name of the tailor upon them. He stood with his hands on his hips for a moment, glanced down the hallway as he considered letting his curiosity get the better of him, then knelt to undo the string and pull the lid off.

The cotton stockings did not confuse him, nor did what he took at that moment to simply be linens. It was only when he came across what was obviously a petticoat that he paused. He dropped it when he found himself fingering the garment, and sat back on his heels. 

He stared into the paper wrappings, then dug his hands into the box until he felt the stiffness of stays.

"Good lord," he breathed, then turned to drag the lid from the other box. " _Good lord!_ " he said much louder when he was faced by a lilac taffeta. 

His heart was beating high and hard in his chest as he reached out towards it. He saw his scarred hands shake and clenched them a moment, willing himself calm before taking the garment by the shoulders and lifting.

It was a dress, neither overly adorned nor covered in ruffles, in fact it was rather simple in cut if not in colour. Elegant even, James thought as he held it up.

It was not made for a delicate and slight lady, either. The swooping neckline was at least wide enough to fit his shoulders, and the length of the bodice was for someone of greater height than any Englishwoman.

"Good _Lord_ ," he whispered, catching a scent of flowers as he pulled the dress close enough for him to press his cheek against the fabric.

_Francis_. It must have come from Francis.

But…

Boothby had been a vile little turd on Malta, bullying those younger or weaker than him and calling it larking, and James was struck by a fear that this was a joke at his expense. And an even keener fear that if Francis saw this he would be annoyed, rightfully, that another man had sent this to James, and also disgusted by it. As he rightfully should be.

Francis had not been disgusted by James’ familiarity with receiving male pleasure. He treated him with love and respect as if he was not someone with so base a preference. James would not push his grace and his love by showing him this. 

He put the boxes back together, piled them up in his arms, and hurried up to his room. They would be safe in there; Daisy never went into their bedrooms, as was proper, and Francis was not a snoop. 

He had made the landing when the front door opened, and he called down a hello to answer Francis’ call. He shoved the boxes under his dressing table, and had just stepped out of his room when Francis reached the top of the stairs. 

“I thought you would be causing mischief with Tom for hours yet?”

“On Daisy’s afternoon off? Not bloody likely,” Francis grinned to show his gapped front teeth, and James found he could not help smiling back. 

“I wonder why?” James murmured as he was pulled into a kiss that became two then three and then four soft kisses. “And what were you up to that has you smelling of beer and tobacco so strongly when your lips taste of neither?”

“Tom took me to a melodrama based on our misadventure.”

“Oh lord save us all.”

“It was over dramatic, almost comically so to Tom and I in some parts. Others were not so amusing,” a frown passed over his face, but was gone quickly. “The man playing you was handsome enough, I suppose.”

“Enough?”

“He would not have drawn a single eye if you had been there,” Francis said with so much sincerity it could not possibly be flattery, and James pulled him closer. 

“And I suppose the fellow playing you had none of your sweetness of face,” James murmured, kissing his ruddy cheek gently. “Nor your strength and sturdiness of build,” James said as he ran his palms down Francis’ strong back. “Nor your fine legs. Nor,” he picked up Francis’ hand and lay a kiss to his freckled wrist. “Your strong, gentle hands.”

“James…”

“Come to bed?”

With some fumbling, as he was being kissed while kissing most thoroughly in return, James got his door open and they stepped through it with practised ease. James dropped a hand from cupping Francis’ jaw to slip under the collar of his coat, and Francis let his waist go only long enough to remove the article and set it aside. 

Hands delved beneath James’ waistcoat then, pulling his shirt from his trousers to touch his bare skin beneath. James sighed into his mouth at the pull of callouses over his skin and pressed closer against Francis, pushing his hardening prick against Francis’ stomach even as he was expertly navigated across his room. 

Waistcoats had been undone and thrown open by the time they reached the bed, and James tipped himself back onto it with a carefree ease, his eyes only on Francis. He watched with bold, hungry eyes as Francis rid himself of his waistcoat, leaving him in his shirtsleeves which did little to hide the fine figure he still had when others his age had run to fat and gout. 

James kicked off his shoes, bringing his feet up to rest his heels on the edge of the bed, giving Francis room to fit between his legs. He felt warm and bright all over at the way Francis looked at him, promising so many things James knew he would deliver, when there was a clatter from behind Francis. 

They both jumped, James scrambling up onto his elbows to see what had occurred. Francis turned towards the noise, and James froze when he saw that one of the boxes had slid from atop the other and now lay half on it’s side with the lid almost dislodged.

“ _Shit,_ ” James breathed, watching as Francis bent to the box and paused at the shimmer of the fabric in the fading daylight. 

“James?” Francis asked, removing the lid so he could have no confusion as to what was in the box. 

“They arrived not long before you returned. I...didn’t know if - I didn’t know…”

“Does this...please you? The dress?” Francis asked earnestly, and James sagged in relief. This had indeed come from Francis. 

He pushed himself up so he was sat in the middle of the bed, and nodded, “The colour is very fine, and the fabric is so very soft. And pleasing to me. I did not put it on, but I think it should fit well enough.”

“Well enough? It should... _suit_ you, very well,” Francis said gently, and James felt warm all over again. 

“Would - we have little knowledge of women’s clothing between us, but would you help me?”

“Oh…” Francis looked from the dress, to the other box, then back to James. “Of course.” He pulled the dress fully out of the box, and laid it gently over the back of a chair. Next he picked up the other box, and hesitated before coming to set it on the bed next to James. He lay his hand atop it, and cocked his head as he read the name of the dress shop elegantly marked upon the lid.

“This is a coincidence.”

“It is?” James prompted when no more was forthcoming. 

“When I visited with Sophia two weeks ago she had received an order from the same dressmaker and we spoke of …” James watched him straighten slightly, blue eyes flicking to James before Francis turned to him. “Did you purchase this?”

James’ heart sank. “No,” he said, voice shaking. “I thought you had…” 

Someone knew. Someone had seen him for what he is; a degenerate, just like his vile womanising real father, and fraud. He was no Englishman - he could not even force himself to live to the basic standards expected of a man. 

He felt himself wilting, every last shred of his vanity and self respect that had survived the Arctic falling away. James made to turn from Francis, hardly bearing to be looked at, when the man put his hands upon his head and swore. “ _Shit_.”

“Francis?”

“ _Great fucking rat turds_!” Francis growled, and James was surprised to find shame on his features. “I admired the dress that Sophia had bought, thinking of maybe purchasing one for you. We have enough back pay to afford a frippery or two, and as this house is your brother’s...Sophia saw me looking, and …”

“Ah,” James breathed, feeling piqued as well as shamed. 

He did not resent Sophia. The few occasions they had met since their return to London had dispelled any ill will he had felt towards her for her treatment of Francis. She was intelligent and independent and had an obvious regard for Francis, and not only had she kept their secret but was pleased by their happiness with one another.

So no, James did not resent the woman, nor her continued friendship with Francis. What he did resent were moments such as this when Francis gave more of himself, of _them,_ than he should.

On previous occasions, in an effort to not be jealous, James had determined to remain calm while voicing his displeasure. However, this was beyond what he could bear. 

James bent to pick up his waistcoat as he slid off the bed, shrugging it on as he jammed his feet back into his shoes. “I do not resent your friendship with Sophia. As you trust her, I also trust her with the truth of what we are to one another. But this Francis, I cannot abide. I cannot abide _her_ , who was so much to you, being involved in _us_ in such a way!”

“I did not ask her to do this, James. I did not encourage this, the truth merely…”

  
“Came out. Yes, the truth merely _came out_ as it always does with her,” James spat. “I _know_. Yet this is my secret, my...base secret, and I do not wish her to know it. Call it catty jealousy, but I will _not abide it_. And I will not be grateful for the meddling.” James said, looked Francis directly in the face, and then stormed out of his own bedroom with all the pride that he had ever been able to muster.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So was anyone else shook when they flicked to the photo plates in the Battersby book and found out that ol 'ceiling kicker' Fitzjames was a dam good artist?
> 
> I had a very clear image of The Dress in my head, based off one I had not actually seen. Or have seen and then forgotten. So, it's in [these colours](https://i.pinimg.com/564x/e6/54/4f/e6544febf57ff7012159901b18c721ce.jpg) with the shape and the lace details something like [this](https://i.pinimg.com/564x/40/e5/06/40e506bb069d445e23b6a90ff1a5b4a2.jpg)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy 206th Birthday to the OG Chaotic Lawful, Jim Fitzjimmy. My Man! 
> 
> Please note the updated tags and rating;)

James heard Francis move in the doorway of the drawing room, but did not look up. Instead he bent further towards the paper where he was expressively recreating the explosion of the rocket he had fired at the Tuunbaq. 

He was angry at Francis, at _Sophia,_ and at his own bloody self for allowing this ridiculousness to go so far. He had tramped down most feelings or desires on the subject for the majority of his life, and there was no excuse for any of his current wavers. There _could be_ no excuse if discovered, not even the sense of horror that lingered just beneath the surface of his skin.

He sensed Francis dithering and slammed down his pencil. A satisfying action which improved his mood only slightly. “You’ve had an hour to think of what to say. So say it.”

“I did not encourage her, or ask her to do this. In truth I did not think she would dare act on what she surmised. I shared business that was not my own, and Miss Cracroft did not act as she should have.”

“ _Miss Cracroft_ ,” James used the last of his bitterness to sneer back. “You did share my own business, which is dangerous to us both and...and was nothing. Merely a fancy! And in overstepping she has made it into something. Something _physical_ and real that we can not turn back from!”

_“_ I know this, James. And am sorry for how it was done.”

James sighed, his anger dissipating and leaving only embarrassment in its place. He stood from the desk that had become overtaken by his drawing and went to sit on the sofa, giving Francis an expectant look until he came and sat beside him.

“I saw the dress in your berth upon Erebus,” Francis said gently, ploughing on when James flinched in surprise. “And I see the way your eyes linger on fine dresses, and how you luxuriate in soft, light things. I want you to be happy…”

“Franics. I am _happy._ I have you.”

A smile - a sweet, pleased little thing - flashed across Francis’ face, but he did not falter in his speech. “Within yourself I mean. I have suffered from being very unhappy within myself, and I do not want such melancholy to touch you. You ought to be happy James. If being pretty and light would bring you joy then I would give it to you.” Francis swallowed, gaze flitting away. “I have no thought for fashion, not as you do, so I found myself enquiring after it - or gathering information if you will -and here we are.”

“You are a dear man. If wholly clumsy in this matter.”

“I know,” Francis grumbled, but looked heartened by James taking his hand. 

“You might have asked me all this, you know.”

“I wished to be thoughtful, and to be prepared,” Francis huffed, grasping James’ hand in both of his. “I have given something great thought, and am now resolved to put a question to you."

"I say, that sounds rather foreboding." James smiled to try and lighten his sense of apprehension. "Ask away."

"If you wished me to cut ties with Sophia, or cool our friendship, then I shall.”

“I can not ask you that," James said with great feeling.

“I love _you_. And if my friendship with her, or our closeness, causes you hurt, then I would do all in my power to prevent it.”

James nodded, now feeling keenly embarrassed by his earlier outburst. He had been angry, was still angry, and rightly so he thought, but he did not wish for this. “And yet she is your dear friend. I will not part you from Miss Cracroft or Ross or Tom, _u_ _nless_ they meddle. I understand your closeness, but it cannot be as it once was. You understand this?”

“I do. We have become a habit to one another, I suppose," Francis murmured. "And not all things have slot into their new places as easy as this," he have James' palm a squeeze, and James defied anyone to withstand the honest feeling of such an action.

“Your charm will get you out of more trouble than would do you good to know," James chided softly, squeezing his hand in return. "I know all intentions were good. I know you would do nothing to damage me, and I trust Miss Cracroft would not either."

“I am glad to hear it.”

“Good,” James sighed, laying his head on Francis’ shoulder. "You are forgiven, of course. And I hope my returning the sentiment ‘ _I love you_ ’ will help you to forgive me for my display of temper."

"You hardly need to ask for it," Francis said softly, pushing a drooping curl behind James’ ear. “James?”

“Yes.”

“If you still wish for a dress, I shall get you one.”

“I have one.”

“One that _I_ did not buy for you.”

“How possessive,” James accused, even as he felt warm and bright down to his toes. "If I feel that way, I shall let you know."

“Of course,” Francis said, sounding a little distant as he dropped a kiss to his hair that was so tender James raised his head to receive its double upon his lips.

* ***** *

Sophia had thought little of placing the order for a fine gown. A modest skill at portraiture had given her cause of be confident of Fitzjames' proportions, or thereabouts, and she had chosen fabrics and lace with the unfussy nature of sailor's in mind. 

It was such considerations that had influenced her selection of a dark blue, almost black, silk ribbon which recalled the colour of Naval uniforms. A personal touch without being identifying, which was a clever thought she had delighted in.

So no, Sophia had thought little of the gift until Francis came to her on a Friday morning when Aunt Jane was out visiting and no doubt fundraising. He was visibly agitated, more so than Sophia had ever seen in her presence, and she rose quickly to her feet to meet him. 

“Francis…”

“Madam,” he said so curtly that Sophia cut around him to close the parlour door.

“What have I done to deserve such a tone from you, Francis?”

“You have interfered, no doubt benignly, in something you ought not have.”

Sophia was puzzled for a moment, then lay a hand on her stomach when realisation hit her. “Oh dear, the dress.”

“Indeed the dress!” Francis snapped, then stepped closer so as to drop his voice. “You did not think to warn me of it? Or to ask if you might?”

“It was a gift given in all good thought and intention!”

“I do not doubt that,” Francis spoke tersely, tugging at the front of his waistcoat. “And neither does James, or so he claims, but he is most aggrieved by it Sophy. Most aggrieved!”

“Oh.”

“He is...not confident in this. He knows full well what this would make him in the eyes of other’s. More than that I will not say, for he is also aggrieved that I spoke of it to you at all.”

Of course he would be, and Sophia should have known it. The effect Fitzjames had on Francis was so ever present, and the fondness with which Francis spoke of him was so vibrant, and so dearly did she wish for his friendship, that she had not seen the over familiarity in her action. And neither, she suspected, had Francis in his.

“He is not jealous. He is so very far from jealous,” Francis pronounced, his dark mood causing him to take her thoughtful silence as a condemnation. “All vanity left him when..." an occurrence she believed too horrible to be spoken of caught in his throat, and when Francis spoke again it was on a different topic. "James likes you, Sophy. He admires you as a woman. He does not resent our friendship, but by _Christ_ he has reason to fear and distrust us now!" He gave a great sigh before continuing. "I promised him safety with me, I promised him a good many things with all my heart, and now he thinks I tell you all our business. That you still have the hold over me that you had since Van Dieman’s land,” Francis sighed and made a half turn away from Sophia. “He is not jealous. He is more vulnerable than you or I know.”

Sophia considered his words, spoken with the same honesty that had always been between them.

“I did not mean to upset him, Francis. Or to lord my closeness to you over him,” Sophia said gently, watching Francis' distress before stepping close to him and laying a comforting hand on his arm. “I only meant to be kind, when all you would face would be unkindness.”

***

Meanwhile, a way across the city, Sir James Fitzjames, Arctic explorer and hero of the China War, was considering a chemise. 

It was such a delicate piece of clothing. So fine and light, he thought as he held it up to his bare torso and twisted one way and then the other. 

He considered himself in the looking glass, curling his bare toes against the rug, and then, haltingly, slipped the chemise over his head. He turned one way and another again, relishing how gently the fabric whispered around his legs and hips as it swayed about him. 

He breathed heavily at the image of himself stood in a plain white cotton slip, his bare shoulders and the press of his hip bones against the fabric a testament to how thin he still was even after a year back in civilisation. He inspected the puckered skin of the old bullet wound on his arm, and sighed hugely. 

James was so far from a soft, delicate, and dainty woman. So far from Sophia.

He found himself with a petticoat in his hands next, and stepped into it easily. He fiddled with the cord to tie it at his waist, pulling it tight on a whim so it cut sharply into his flesh. It did not hurt in any way that mattered anymore, few things did, but he was no longer in the business of testing himself either, so he let the cord loosen before tying it in a neat bow. 

The petticoat wasn’t a ridiculous amount of fabric, it hung with not that much greater volume than the chemise, and James was glad of it. He didn’t want to look like a tiered cake sat in the middle of a banqueting table. 

He put his hands on his hips, and looked from himself to the array of other simple, finely made clothes currently spread over his room. 

“Dam it all,” he muttered to himself, and reached for some other piece of fine, soft, pure white linen. 

* ***** *

Back in Lady Franklin’s neat parlour Sophia had managed to calm Francis enough for them both to sit. She upon the sofa, and he across from her in a high backed chair, legs crossed somewhat sullenly, but that was not unusual for him. 

“You couldn’t rightly step into a dress shop, Francis,” she explained patiently, curling her hands in her lap. “You are known, your image has been in _The Times_! And paintings of your trek are filling the Royal Academy exhibition this year, so it is said.“

“Good Christ, don’t remind me.”

“You are also a known bachelor. As is Sir James, and the truth of the scandal he saved George Barrow from is a whispered secret through all of London…”

“Lady Jane would have vapours if she knew you knew of such things as male bordellos,” Francis murmured, a twinkle of good humour returning to him. 

“I wish to support you in any way I might, so you might be happy together. For it cannot be easy to hide yourselves so. I am sorry I did not ask, or alert you to my plan. I realise I should have. I apologise.”

“Thank you, Sophy.”

“I will write Sir James a letter of apology. And if he will see me, I would apologise in person.”

“He would not turn you away, if only for my sake," Francis muttered grimly. He was contemplating the shine on his shoes, then he gazed around the neat room, finally looking at her with a vibrant emotion apparent in his eyes."I love him so, Sophy. I do not know if our position in such a desperate situation nurtured these strong emotions, or fear made a greater need for companionship, but I find myself happily bewitched by him. And happily damned.”

Sophia stood and crossed the room to kneel at Francis’ side, laying her hands upon his leg. “He loves you so, Francis. I know it. I see it whenever he looks upon you, such gentleness that...that I know this could not be wrong. God is _love_ , and so gentle, honest love can not be abhorrent to Him. You are not damned Francis, but blessed.”

He nodded, and sat in brightening contemplation for a moment.“I am grateful for your words, and also sorry,” he stood, offering Sophia his arm instead of his hand to help her to her feet. “Even if the result was upset and insult, the meaning behind your gift was well intentioned. If you send James a note he will read it, and not hold you at fault.”

“I am glad.”

“And thank you for your good wishes towards us. They mean a great deal to us both.”

“I am glad to give them to you,” Sophia said in all earnestness. This was no penance for sending him to the Passage, no guilt being exorcised. Fitzjames could be to Francis what she never could have, for she had always known that she was far too independent of spirit to be a wife, and it was beyond her to wish Francis anything but the happiness he currently had. "My dearest friend."

* ***** *

James opened his bedroom door when he heard voices down stairs, and listened for a moment as Daisy fussed as fully as Jopson or Bridgens ever had.

"I 'ope you don't mind, sir, but Sir James said that I was dismissed when I 'ad attended to all my duties. He said that you would see to your own suppa, an' I left some cold cuts an' such in the pantry. If you need anything…"

"Daisy,” Francis cut her off with the clipped yet not unkind tones of a Captain. "If James said you are free to leave, then you may. Enjoy your evening." 

"Thank you, sir."

"And uhh…" Francis paused, and James could imagine the gentleness that would pass across his face when he said. "Take some for your own supper, of you like.”

It was starting to rain, and the air had taken on a chill because of it. The cold reminded Francis of starving hunger, James knew that, and the lengths men had gone to try and survive it. Daisy was not at risk of such deprivations, the Coningham's paid their staff well, but hunger haunted one terribly.

"Thank you very much, sir,” Daisy said softly, a smile clear in her voice. “'ave a very pleasant evening, sir."

James waited for her footsteps to hurry off into the back of the house before opening his door further. He listened to Francis moving about in the hallway and on the stairs, stepping out of his room when he heard Francis make the first floor. 

He had left books and drawing materials spread out over the drawing room, evidence of how disquieted he had been ever since Francis had stepped out. He had not said that he was going to have words with Sophia Cracroft, but why else would he go out when the lady’s Aunt was set to speak at the Admiralty? 

His unrest had become such that he had dismissed Daisy and moved to his bedroom so he did not have to act with the propriety expected of him even in his own home. James had indulged himself with the gown to satisfy the curiosity that had been playing on his mind for the past day and a half, as well as hoping it would be a means to take his mind from his worries; all those dark, crowding thoughts that came on so easily ever since their second year on the ice. They had not touched him when he had traded his uniform for that scarlet costume dress or, to begin with, the robes of Britannia. And now he was out of the finest men’s fashions and into the most delicate of ladies the morbidness and cares had left him once again. 

Now he felt light, and soft in a way he had never been able to be. And also damnably nervous. 

Francis moved around some more, James heard him fiddling with the drawing room fire, before his step sounded in the hallway once more. 

James moved then, coming halfway down the stairs just as Francis set his foot upon the bottom step. 

The thoughtful look upon his face switched to surprise when he saw James. His mouth fell open, caught on a word, before snapping closed again. James straightened as blue eyes raced down the length of his neck and over his bare shoulders, feeling the his skin prickle in the wake of Francis' gaze.

How strange it was that men, who's honour was bound up in their deeds, were wrapped up in layers of clothing at all times, whereas a ladies honour was tied up in her person and yet they were expected to dress like this. James felt vulnerable in a way he had never before. It was exposing, and shameful, and yet Francis looked at him as if he were a wonder.

"Francis," James said, hating how his voice wavered, and touched one of the fine curls he had put in his hair. 

Something in the movement spurned Francis into action, and he came up the stairs to meet James. 

"I…" Francis' eyes strayed to the lace edge of the neck line, and then lower to where the dress was pressing against James' waist. They lingered a moment before darting back to James' face as if they had not seen a deal more of him than his shoulders and bare arms. "I did not think you would wear this?" he asked, adjusting the brown paper package under his arm a little nervously.

"I did not either, until I put it on," James fingered the lace on his bodice before clasping his hands in front of him. "Miss Cracroft has fine taste,” James conceded. “It would be a shame to let it go to waste."

"It would have indeed been a waste, for you look very fine," Francis said and blushed. He always said he hated it when he flushed, claimed it made him look 'even more Irish', if not drunk, but James thought it brought out the boyishness of his face. And he had always taken great pleasure in making Francis blush all the way down his chest. "You like it?

"I do. And you? Do you like it, Francis?"

"I? Yes," Francis nodded eagerly. "You look pretty. So _very_ pretty."

James smiled, pleasure fluttering in his chest, and nodded to the package under Francis' arm. "What do you have there?"

Francis blinked at James, then looked at the package as if he had forgotten it was there. James would be lying if he said seeing Francis in such a fluster because of him was not immensely pleasing, and he smiled when Francis laid his other hand upon the paper. “After I spoke with…umm…"

“Sophia?”

“Yes. I thought I would buy you something to try and bring you cheer.”

James immediately wanted to grab the parcel and rip the paper off, but felt he could not behave like a rabid midshipman when he was both a grown man and wearing lilac silk. 

“Well, if you wish to give it to me now, let us go where I might open it.”

Francis nodded, stepping to the side and holding his hand out to James as if he were a fine lady in need of escorting. James swallowed, toes curling against the carpeted stairs as he laid his hand over Francis’ palm.

James, as a man who had helped lead so many souls out of the Arctic, felt a little ridiculous about being helped down a few stairs. Even so he did not let go of Francis’ hand when they reached the landing, instead sharing a sardonic smile as he let himself be escorted into his own bloody drawing room. 

“Am I laying it on too thick?” Francis asked gently.

“I haven’t decided yet,” James admitted as he gave his fingers a squeeze. “But I appreciate the gesture.”

Francis smiled at him, gapped toothed and bright, and held James’ gaze as he bent to brush his lips over one of his scarred knuckles before letting James go with a nod towards the sofa.

James took a moment to work out how to sit in skirts (and had to stop himself crossing his legs as he usually did) and barely contained a shuffle of excitement when Francis set the package down in his lap. 

“It is not a great deal,” he said softly, holding his hands stiffly behind his back as he watched James tear into it.

It contained some new books of paper, some sketching pencils of all types, and a box of artist's pastels. The last item bought a cry of excitement from James as he had been wishing to put the vibrant blues of ice and the rich tones of the sea into some of his drawings, and he got his feet. “It is a great deal! Francis, thank you,” he breathed, the box clutched in his hand as he touched Francis’ face and kissed him. 

Francis’ hands went to James’ shoulders, touching the ribbons that hung so daintily from the capped sleeves, before his rough palms slipped down James' arms. Fingertips lingered over still tender scar on James’ arm, and when James' gasped at the touch Francis took him by the waist and pulling him against his sturdy frame.

The skirts rustled as they became crushed against their legs, and James gasped again when he felt a line of hardness through the layers of clothing. The kisses eased then, trailing off into pecks of lips and James curled his hand over Francis' jaw to try and prevent him, with great shudder of breath, easing away.

"What's the matter?" James breathed, shifting on his stockinged feet at the feeling of Francis moulding his palms to the narrowest part of his waist. 

"This is a comfort for you, this dress. I can see it already, and I do not want to debase it. Or make you feel like a molly."

"Good lord!"

“I would not…”

"Why on earth do you think I should feel like a bloody molly?" James cocked his head, tossing a curl from his eyes. "I should hope to feel like an expensive one if I do."

"James!' Francis hissed, rocking back on his heels with a scandalised look in his wide blue eyes. 

"All right, that was callous.”

“Yes it was!”

“Of course I have such worries,” James murmured, sweeping his thumb over Francis’ jaw. “Chief of which was that my wanting this, or more rightly my acting upon this, would break your regard and respect for me."

"Nothing could do that. _Nothing_."

"I know that. But this is pushing the very limits of what is acceptable, is it not?”

“Bugger acceptable,” Francis groused, and James laughed.

“I know you encouraged this for my sake," James brushed his lips against Francis' forehead. "I am glad you find me pleasing this way, and I have always been glad of your prick finding me pleasing," James kissed the edge of Francis' mouth when he tutted. "But I am also glad of your care for me."

"Always," Francis murmured, squeezing James' waist as he accepted a kiss from him. “Would you rather not spend some time, as this, before…”

“Before you bugger me senseless? Because I am ready for it, Francis,” James took one of Francis’ hands and moved it down the curve of his back until it rested on the hidden swell of his backside. “I made myself ready.”

James felt Francis shudder, felt him twitch against him, and thought he was about to be thrown onto the sofa and taken. Francis swallowed instead, and nodded to the tin in James’ hand. “Would you try the pastels? As I know you were most keen to use colour.”

“Will you watch me working?” James asked, coyly playing along.

“What else could I possibly have to look at?”

James felt a flush rush to his ears and he cleared his throat, taking a step back in frustration when Francis grinned at his obvious fluster. “If you spoke more like that at the Admiralty, they’d like you better,” he muttered as he strode over to this drawing desk and dropped heavily into the seat, an action that the stay’s made him regret immediately.

“Something tells me that if I spoke to Sir John Ross in such a manner he would not, in fact, like me any better than he does now,” Francis said as he shifted a chair so it faced James. 

“Oh I don’t know. The old coot might be desperate for some sweet words.” James shot him a look over his shoulder as he picked the box open. “For someone to comment on the distinguished bearing of his face, or the bushiness of his beard.”

“Should I worry that you’ll run off with Sir.John Ross?”

“Lord no,” James muttered as he sorted through his drawings, coming to one showing the porpoises who used to dance and race one another in the bow waves of the ships. “Not when I have _the_ Sir Francis R M Crozier in my drawing room while I am -” James threw his head back and cried in a falsetto “- _unchaperoned!”_

“Get on with yer drawin’!”

James quickly became absorbed in picking out the ripples and foam of the ocean with strokes of colour, fancying he could feel the icy bite of the wind against his cheeks as he tried to give even more of a sense of motion to the delightful creatures. He made a comment or two to Francis who hmm’d in reply from where he was slouched in his chair watching James. His gaze was all too soft, showing an open, gentle appreciation that belayed the desire that James had felt pressing against him. 

Not that he minded. If Francis wished to spend a few hours quietly out of a desire to preserve and protect this for James then he would not push and cajole. And if Francis wished to sit and look at him like this, in a pretty dress with his hair curled, then James was more than happy to be looked at.

Besides, he was having an awfully good time trying to create the _Aurora_ on a blank page, knowing it was fruitless to capture such wonders but enjoying the streaks of colour nonetheless.

He sat back with a sigh from another trial page. This time he was attempting to capture something of the brightness of the pack ice, jiggling the foot he had wrapped around the leg of the chair as he tried to think of how he might employ the pastels best. He made to rub at his eyes which became tired so easily after the scurvy and sighed when he saw all the colour staining his fingers. He had no handkerchief of course, there were no pockets in a gown, and was looking about for something to clean his hand with when Francis stood and offered him his handkerchief. 

“The pack?” he asked as James wiped his fingers.

“An attempt at it,” James admitted, jumping slightly when Francis’ warm hand met his bare shoulder. Goosebumps raced all over his arms at the contact, but he did not pull away, and if Francis’ noticed he did not make it apparent. 

"A fine attempt," Francis stated, shifting through the pages with one hand as he ran the thumb of the other over the curve of James' collarbone. "You have always had an eye for details."

"Thank you," James breathed, swaying into Francis' warmth. He had always been so, even without whiskey lighting that Irish fire in his veins Francis had run hot. It had been what first drew James to him, that warmth when all else was cold and despair. With a rustle of his skirts James turned into it, pressing his cheek to the pattern on Francis’ waistcoat and breathing deep of the rich smell of his tobacco and the freshness of his soap. 

Francis moved his hand to the middle of James’ shoulder blades, fingers touching the lacing of the bodice before smoothing his palm up to curl around the back of James' neck.

He grabbed onto Francis' trousers and turned his face up towards him. "I dismissed Daisy because I wanted to have you, I only put on this dress afterwards. I had not even intended you to see me, but I found I wanted you to. I wanted…" he curled his fingers into the material of Francis' trousers in frustration. "I don't have words. I only know that I simply feel so much, fear, joy, lightness and..." James swallowed hard as he looked into Francis' face, and decided to be honest even if it dammed him. "...and shame. But I will not feel shame if you want me, because I have never once felt shame when I am with you."

Francis' expression pinched a moment, then he grabbed James by his bare arms and hauled him to his feet. James blinked at the rioting emotion on Francis’ face, then grabbed him by the lapels and hauled him close for a kiss that was clumsy until Francis cupped his face and calmed it. 

They kissed languidly as Francis smoothed his palms over the curve of James’ spine. He spread his fingers to span the width of his lower back, pressing the heel of his hands into James’ sides. James smiled into the kiss and let his own hands move to the breadth of Francis’ chest, fingering the buttons on his waistcoat before slowly undoing them. 

With some shoving James managed to push both Francis’ waistcoat and his coat off his shoulders, gripping onto them when Francis started to kiss along his collarbone. James dug his fingertips into the strength there, tipping his head back with a moan when Francis set his teeth to the base of James’ throat. 

“Beautiful,” Francis murmured against his skin, shoving his hand against the skirts to press against James’ cock. 

“ _Oh God,”_ James breathed, tilting his hips into the pressure. Rocking into it as Francis left sucking kisses all the way up his throat to the hinge of his jaw. 

“So beautiful.”

“Francis…” James breathed, pushing him away to get to the buttons of his fly. He managed to get enough open to shove his hand inside of Francis’ trousers, rubbing at his prick as he dragged Francis back in for an opened mouth kiss. 

They pushed against one another, grabbing and biting and squeezing - wholly graceless in the way passion sometimes takes you - until Francis placed his hands on James' hips and encouraged him to turn. James shuddered as he did so, sighing when Francis pressed himself against James' back and curled an arm around his waist. The first time they had been intimate, a hurried desperate thing, it had been like this; James allowing Francis to use his strength to hold him steady, giving James his rough hand to fuck into while Francis rutted his clothed prick against James' backside.

James moaned at the memory, leaning back into Francis as he flattened his hand to James' chest, smoothing his fingers over the lace of the neckline before moving up to press against the base of James' throat. James sighed when he felt Francis press his face into his hair, then kiss down the back of his neck and over the ball of his shoulder as he pressed his hips into James' backside. "You said you were prepared?"

"Yes," James huffed, and started to haul up his skirts. 

There was a scramble of hands and cursing as they tried to pass all the petticoats. "If you want me to have you this way again," Francis growled as he batted James' hands away. "Don't wear any fucking petticoats!"

"It's all part of the fun," James said breathlessly, grinning when Francis finally won out over linen and discovered James was bare beneath.

"I hope you wore underwear on Malta," Francis murmured as he groped James' backside. 

James just quirked an eyebrow and tugged at Francis' cravat, tossing it to the floor as he bent kiss the faint freckles littering his neck. He felt Francis shiver, and was about to set his teeth to the bob of his Adam's apple when a finger pushed into where he was slicked and open. "Ah! _Good Christ!_ "

They ended up on the rug. Or rather, Francis ended up on his back on the rug with James astride his hips, skirts pooled out around them and the lacing of his bodice and stays loosened like he was a wanton woman. Which James rather liked the idea of, especially when he had seated himself fully on Francis’ cock. The stretch, the fullness, sent a tingle up his spine and he tipped his head back, answering Francis’ groan with a sigh of his own. 

James breathed steadily as he ground his hips down, savouring the feeling of being so taken and taking all at once, before reaching behind himself to grasp Francis bent knee. He squeezed it lovingly, bracing himself against it as he began to rock himself down onto Francis’ prick. 

“Yes,” Francis gripped at James’ waist again, then his hips, then pushed his hand under the skirts to grasp his thigh. “Christ. Fucking hell James you are lovely.” The praise had James letting his head fall forward, curls brushing his cheeks as he met Francis’ wide eyes. “So very lovely.”

James breathed heavily through his nose as he bit his lower lip, and reached out to fumble with the buttons of Francis’ shirt. He pushed it open and dragged his fingers through the faintly greying hair on Francis’ robust chest before pressing his hand over his heart, tipping forward to brace himself there so he might look Francis in the eye as he buggered himself on his prick. 

It was not an act that was lovely, or worthy of being called lovely, and yet with Francis’ gentle eyes and the way he touched James he could almost believe it was true. 

They moved together, Francis planting his feet so he could push up into James whenever he seated himself, forcing a noise out of James’ tender lips. He began rolling his hips, letting his cock rub against the inside of his petticoats as Francis fucked up into him. “Oh christ. _Fra- aah_.”

Francis smoothed his hand up to the top of James’ stocking, stroking over the lace band that lay against his skin. “Please,” James whined, grabbing Francis’ other hand as it moved down from his waist to grasp his hip. 

“What do you want?” Francis panted.

James wanted to be thrown onto his back and fucked into the floor, but the dress would not allow it and his back would not take it. Instead he curled his fingers against Francis’ chest, throwing his head back a moment as he ground down hard on his cock before meeting his heated eyes once more. “Touch me please, Francis,” he gasped, hiccuping on a moan when Francis ran his hands up the inside of his thigh, callouses catching on his skin, before wrapping his fingers around his cock. 

“ _Oh bom Deus doce!”_ James panted without realising. He took his hand from Francis’ knee to tug at the mess of lacing at his back, trying to loosen them further so he might move more freely between Francis’ hand on his prick and the curve of his cock moving so perfectly inside him. _“Você se sente bem._ No one ever made me feel so much _, só você. Eu te amo. Eu te amo. ”_

Francis moved his hand from James’ hip to his chest, curling his fingers over his shoulder as he pressed his thumb into the dip at the base of his throat. He worked James’ cock harder, had gone pink with the effort of fucking up into James in every way he liked, and his hard work came to fruition when, with a shudder and a cry, James tipped over the precipice. 

He swayed dangerously and tipped forward to lean his weigh against Francis’ chest. The dress started to slip down his arms but he didn’t attempt to right it as he was busy trying to catch his breath. “Oh,” he said with a great sigh that puffed a curl from his eyes. He smiled at Francis, touching the hand still sat at the base of his throat as he shifted experimentally on the hard prick still inside him, his gasp overwhelmed by Francis’ own. 

“See,” James said softly, picking up Francis’ hand and kissing the meat of his thumb. “I feel no shame when I am with you,” he kissed the joint of his thumb as he encouraged his tired thighs and trembling stomach pitch his arse back onto Francis’ prick again. “Not one ounce.”

“James,” Francis spoke, his Irish accent cracking so beautifully over the vowels of James’ name. He paused for a heartbeat, licking his dry lips and watching Francis’ gaze track the movement, before lowering himself so he could kiss Francis’ jaw. 

“Say it again,” James murmured, pushing the forelock of Francis’ soft red hair off his forehead.

“ _James_ ,” Francis said like an I love you, like one hundred I love you’s, and James kissed him as he began moving on top of him. It was languid, and far from the energetic bouncing that James had indulged in while he had chased his release, but Francis still moaned so beautifully into James’ mouth, still clung to him as he tipped his head back to allow James to kiss from his mouth down to his chest. 

He licked one of Francis’ pink nipples, then the ridge of an old scar, before holding his face and licking into his mouth. “You call me beautiful, and yet you delight me so,” James whispered into his panting mouth. “I love you. And I want to be _filled_ by you.”

“ _James,”_ Francis gasped, grasping at James’ hip and encouraging him to move a little faster, a little harder, until he reached his release with a grunt and a hard snap of his hips to bury himself to the hilt inside James.

They kept moving together, the way even slicker than before, until James could not stand the overwhelming sensation any more. He gave Francis one last kiss before pulling clear away, beset by a hollowness at the sudden emptiness of no longer having Francis inside him. The feeling was not allowed to linger as he was dragged down onto the rug next to Francis, a strong arm looping around his bare shoulders to pull him against his side.

James rested his cheek on Francis' shoulder, his hand slipping back into his shirt to smooth over Francis’ chest and down to his stomach, feeling his breathing slow and calm as he tucked himself back into his trousers.

“Well,” Francis murmured, resting his hand on James’ wrist as he dropped a kiss to his hair. 

James hummed in agreement, shifting closer as the sweat on his skin began to cool. “Marvellous idea on my part,” he murmured, tipping his head up for a kiss Francis readily dropped onto his mouth. “Although, I don’t know how ladies conduct rushed dalliances. I could hardly move as vigorously as I liked.”

“Good God man, you’d have killed me.”

James smiled, slipping his hand further into Francis’ shirt to run up and down his side. “I had wanted you to bend me any way you liked as you took me.”

Francis shook his head, not rising to the bait on any level, and trailed his hand from James’ arm to the rumpled fabric at his middle. “That dress will be horribly creased,” he observed. “And the petticoats no doubt stained.”

“I’m sure one less won’t vex you,” James smiled, pushing himself up onto his elbow to try and neaten himself out. The displaced stays dug into him as he did so and James swore as he made a fruitless effort to get away from it. He hauled himself onto all fours, then inelegantly to his feet, grabbing the now unlaced dress to his chest as he stumbled slightly on wobbling legs. 

“Seem’s that was rather a leg trembler,” Francis said, voice laced with amusement. James snorted, then found himself distracted by the sight of Francis lounging on the floor with one leg crossed over the other and his hands folded behind his head, bright eyes lingering on where the bodice was slipping down James’ chest. 

“You try kneeling on the floor for a good long while.”

“I might later.”

James went warm all over at the promise in Francis’ voice, far more warm than the fire burning low in the grate merited. He clung to the bodice, experiencing a ridiculous moment of modesty that he supposed came by dressing so femininely, before very carefully letting the dress fall and stepping out of it. He draped it over the chair, laying the dratted stays over it, then untying the petticoats so he was left in the chemise and stockings. James shivered, a chill catching him under the delicate linen, and he felt ridiculous for being so affected by the coolness of a polite drawing room when the Arctic had once been home. 

“Here,” Francis said as he got to feet with the limberness of a younger man, scooping up his coat and holding it out for James to slip into. The sleeves were a touch short on him, but the body of the frock coat was tailored for Francis’ build and was more than enough to wrap around him. “As nice as you always look in any underclothes, I cannot have you chilled,” Francis said, solicitously leading James to the sofa to sit before going to place more coals upon the fire. 

Francis looked very fine in his civilian clothes, and even more fine in his uniform, but James quite liked him kneeling before the fire in his shirt sleeves, trousers hugging the curve of his shapely rear.

James sunk down against the cushions when Francis came to sit next to him, taking the weight off his backside as he slotted himself back under Francis’ arm once again, pulling the coat tighter about him. “Thank you,” he murmured, slinging a leg over Francis’ so they were tangled together. 

Francis kissed his hair, squeezing his shoulder, and then whispered a little uncertainly. “ _Eu te amo_.”

James was as surprised as he was pleased to hear the sentiment said, no matter how clumsily, in Portuguese. Hertfordshire was his home, and he had counted himself to be an Englishman since he had known what such things meant, but Portuguese had been the first language he had ever spoken. It delighted him to hear it proclaim love from the mouth of his beloved, and it softened something inside him to be seen and to be known so fully and with such kindness.

James smiled, cupping Francis’ cheek in the palm of his hand as he pushed up to kiss his lips. “And I love you, with all my heart has to give.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me, a Londoner: how do you type a London accent?
> 
> I know you probably couldn't get into those Victorian dresses on your own, or very easily. But James is a sailor, he's good with pulling rope and tying knots and doing whatever the hell he wants.
> 
> The Portuguese is pretty self explanatory, and I hope not appalling to anybody that speaks it.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's the last chapter! boooo
> 
> Please note the updated tags.

“What do Admiral’s do sat about in offices all day? Surely they should be off somewhere terrifying midshipmen. I know that I should be off cocking a snook at some French man-o'-war if I ever reached so lofty a position.”

Francis glanced at James who, despite his complaints, looked more bored than exasperated, and certainly less disquieted than he had been at the opera all those weeks ago.“Careful now, or you shall develop my habit of grumbling.”

James shot him a droll look and tossed his hair out of his eyes. “I shall do as I please. I might take it up permanently if it means they no longer parade me about," he gave a dismissive wave of his gloved hand. "They can find some other bauble while I am shoved to the side and gratefully put out of their minds and favours.”

Francis looked over James who somehow managed to look at ease in this grand and overbearing Admiralty reception room, making the suffocating dress uniform of a Captain seem as if it were something he had simply shrugged on this morning. He had thought him a bauble once, a gilt edge to the Navy made of all the dash and good humour expected of a sailor. Now he knew James to be competent and dutiful and brave, and certainly of greater intelligence than any tyrannical Russian princeling they were going to be introduced to this afternoon. 

“You should not wish for that,” Francis said quietly. “If your voice and therefor your sense will be heard through these means then it will be worth it. For you are a credit to the Navy in both your conduct and nature, and your eye for the future will no doubt help shape her. All things, dare I say, that should be held up and shown to be a fine exemplar of what an Englishman _should_ be, not what they all think one is.”

"Wh..." James started, falling silent as he visibly tried to contain an emotion. Francis recalled the way his voice had cracked over his assertion that he was not 'really English' on that desolate walk from Victory Point, his shame so ingrained that even out there, in that land that was slowly killing them, he feared some kind of judgement. 

“Besides," Francis grumbled, steering them into less turbulent waters. "You can hardly complain to me about all this when it is you who has so loudly insisted I be included in all things.”

“I would not have you overlooked for _their_ vanity. The man who is the reason any of us lived long enough to be rescued, and the man who spoke the only sense in that wardroom.”

_The man I love_ remained unspoken, as it should, but Francis felt the weight of it. He stood and took a turn around the room to try and work off the flighty feeling in his stomach, passing the Articles of War, of all damnable things, through his mind to distract himself until he caught a glance of his reflection in a polished surface. 

No longer indulging in any drink had improved his complexion and his appearance noticeably, and despite the stresses and deprivations of the arctic his hair was no thinner nor less red than it had been. In fact against the blue of his uniform it was noticeably red in that bright Irish way. And next to James, who was - at this moment irritatingly so - all charm and handsomeness, he looked damnably Irish too. And a rough Irishman at that!

He caught himself before he slid the old path back in to the self pitying melancholy that used to follow him about whenever he used to force himself to the Admiralty. He was no longer that bitter, retiring man. Was no longer someone to be pitied and overlooked, even if it would no longer rankle with him if he were. All that breed of vanity had been stripped away along with Tom’s leg.

Francis could recall with clarity the day they had been ordered from the Naval Hospital to stand before these men and account for themselves. The Captains and Admirals of the Court Martial had been as self satisfied and superior as always, and Francis had taken no delight in watching it slip away as he had told them of the sickness that came from the cheap food the Navy had given the expedition. Of how the bad charts had led them in circles, of how they owned their lives to the Inuit and Hudson’s Bay Company and not to any man who had been about that table. All his exhausted grief given edge by his desire to demand of them why they had allowed James, the finest Gunnery Officer in the Navy, with a glowing career ahead of him, to waste himself for a trade route.

It had only been afterwards, in the carriage back to Greenwich, that James had made him realise how visible his anger had been. “I though Barrow Junior was about to spring from the room as if a Tiger had been set lose in there. We’re only here now, and not being asked for the precise shape of the icicles dangling from the rigging, because they feared the retribution in your answers.”

“Hopefully they will remember my display before expecting us to try again for the Passage,” Francis had muttered, then been surprised when James had laughed. 

“Once they no longer have need of us I shall say farewell to discovery of all sorts and set off to Portsmouth to refresh my gunnery training. Then I shall get myself commissioned on a ship that’ll do nothing more taxing than rattling the sabre at the Ottoman’s, as it were,” he had been looking out of the window, seeming decades older than he was and yet not a speck less beautiful. “I am all out of glory, and do not wish to stretch to breaking point Death’s already lenient treatment of me,” then he had looked at Francis, and contrary to the philosophical leaning of his words, had winked at him. “Not now I have a good thing going, eh?”

Francis shook his head to return to the present, and found that the rough Irishman in the polished surface had soften in demeanour, and had managed to crack a smile. Not even the Fitzjames of his memories allowed Francis a moment of melancholy, the damned busybody.

Francis rolled his eyes, making a derisive noise at himself for being so affected by so little a memory, and turned back to James. His shift in mood must have shown on his face because James blinked at him in surprise and moved towards him, barely getting out his name before a door opened behind Francis. 

He turned towards it automatically, feeling James come to attention at his shoulder. Something in the familiarity of him being there, his trusted and dependable Second, made Francis stand a little taller too. Ready to face the horrors of polite small talk and inane questions and having to watch some foreign aristocrat paw at James, all helped along by two long fingers brushing the inside of his gloved palm with a delicacy unnatural in a sailor but so natural in James. 

* ***** *

“James please. I beg of you, allow a man to have a bite of his supper without almost causing him to choke to death with laughter!”

“You have hyperbolised my effect, sir. If I were indeed that humorous then a swathe of Admirals and well bred persons should have met their maker with pheasant or some such lodged in their throat,” James grinned, pausing in bringing his glass to his mouth to look over his shoulder at Daisy who was busy at the sideboard. “Not that your fine cooking would dare do such a thing, Daisy.”

“I should ‘ope not, sir,” Daisy replied, which cause a grin to flash across James’ face as he sipped his wine. 

“Fine. I shall endeavour to not say a word until you have had two bites of your food. For I should hate you to both starve or choke.”

“Come now. You set out to tell me of meeting one of your crowd of Godchildren this afternoon, and have instead only spoken of the trouble you and Charlewood found yourself in all along the Euphrates.”

"Well, firstly let me tell you that she fair tired me out with demands to be hurled into the air and caught safely - once she had got used to me of course. Mrs.Charlewood was most gladdened to see we got on, while Charlewood assured her that any child of his should of course be as good a friend to me as he is,” he shook his head fondly, and took a mouthful of his rice. “She's a darling little thing with the largest grey eyes. Bright as a button. I told Charlewood not to waste her on embroidery and frippery and to put her mind to good use. I felt I had the right to, seeing as she's named for me."

"I thought her name was Alice?"

"Oh yes. Alice _Fitzjames_ Charlewood," he had said in such a dire tone that it caused Daisy to stifle a laugh. 

“Oh Daisy, do leave that be and see to your own meal,” Francis told her, not hiding the good humour from his voice. “I cannot bare to eat while you stand there. We’ll ring when we’re done.”

“Very well, sir. Thank you, sir.” She bobbed her freckled head and bustled from the room, the door barely closing behind her before James was leaning over to squeeze Francis’ knee.

“A cunning ploy to get me alone and ravish me?” he asked, one eyebrow arched roguishly.

“After I have eaten,” Francis told him, smiling down at his mutton when James laughed. 

They continued their meal in a companionable manner, even if they leant in closer to one another than companions ought, until James became thoughtful. His answers grew slow in coming, and his sentences strung along with his mind clearly somewhere else. 

Francis let him be, and was ready to give James his full attention when he finally set down his cutlery. 

"I say," he said as he dabbed gently at his mouth with his napkin before setting it over his thigh. "I received a very kind letter from Miss Cracroft this morning."

"She made it known to me that she would write an apology," Francis ventured, watching James' expression closely.

“She has. I appreciate that she has done so, and also her reasoning. If you do not mind I shall write her a reply on the morrow."

“Of course, James,” Francis agreed, unsure as to why he might mind at all.

James nodded. His jaw was working in the way that meant his tongue was worrying at the places where he was missing teeth, and Francis set down his own cutlery so he could take his hand. “James?”

“She is very intelligent. I can see why you loved her so.”

“That is firmly in the past, James.”

“Oh, I know,” James said, the softness of his smile softening what might have been the arrogance of the statement. “It is only..." his expression became pinched, his eyes darting about the room before coming to rest on Francis again. "It is only that she said she wished for us to be friends.” 

“I do not insist upon it or expect it,” Francis ventured, then spotted another course and changed tack. "Nor would she ask for it if she were not in earnest."

“I know,” James brought their joined hands up to his face, kissing Francis’ fingers before pressing them to his cheek. “Even I can only do so much at once, Francis. There are many things I must become and conquer and do, and I cannot quite face that yet. I may never be able to face being friends with Miss Cracroft...Does that make me so very awful a person?”

“It makes you a very rare thing,” Francis murmured. “A Naval officer who knows his limitations.”

James eyes sparkled as he pressed his smile to Francis’ palm, and then to the skin of his wrist that sat just under his cuff, before resting his cheek back upon Francis’ hand. “I am the most rare and exotic thing indeed, then,” he said, and Francis could not help but agree with him wholeheartedly.

* ***** *

“Now, what do you think of this?”

There was no hesitation or fear in James as he stood before Francis, or rather twirled before him, in his brand new dress.

It was made of blue, back, and white striped silk with a dash of white lace about the collar and pleating on the bodice to show off his fine figure. Purchasing it had been a trial which edged upon farce in some places, and included a ridiculous argument where James of all people had accused _Francis_ of spending too much money on clothes. Yet seeing how fine and happy James looked made every second of the ridiculousness and every penny spent some of the wisest uses Francis had ever had for both his time and money. 

“I think you have somehow managed to be more lovely than ever,” Francis admitted, raising his eyebrows as he finished taking in the full elegant length of James. 

“Thank you,” James murmured, looking pleased as if that had ever been in any doubt. He smiled when Francis came to kiss him, and held lightly onto the lapels of his coat when he tried to step away. “It hardly seems fair to ask for more from you after you have already been so generous…”

“Spit it out, man.”

James grinned, then shifted in delight. “The other day I not only found Elizabeth’s music box, but I also found the cylinder that plays a lively Polka.” 

“Oh good lord,” Francis muttered, smoothing his hands up James’ arms to touch the lace at the cuffs of his tight tailored sleeves.

“Please Francis. I should like to dance.”

Francis would not refuse James many things, and could not find it in himself to refuse him this. James liked to dance and make merry and ‘lark’, but often admitted to feeling that dancing with young ladies was being unfair to Francis. Which was rubbish of course, a dance could simply be a dance, and yet despite Francis telling him this James’ hesitation remained. 

“And where did you become used to not dancing lead?”

James narrowed his eyes as if trying to work out if the innuendo had been on purpose (it had not, but was amusing to Francis all the same). “You’d be surprised how many young officers did not shame themselves upon the dance floor because of my aid. And that was not an innuendo.”

“All right. All right, you can suffer through a Polka with my leaden feet.”

“You hop about rigging daintily enough,” James said airily, leading Francis downstairs and into the spacious front parlour that they hardly ever used. “Your act of a plodding old sea dog does not fool _me,_ Sir Francis,” James stuck his nose into the air like a haughty duchess and Francis could not help but laugh. 

“You have found me out, _Lady_ Fitzjames. What shall my forfeit be?”

“Three Polka’s!” James declared, snorting inelegantly when Francis pantomimed horror and then misery. 

The music box was set up with James letting lose a minor rant of profanity which would have left Blanky impressed, dispelling any illusion their might be about him being anything other than a sailor. 

“Right, now the thrice damned thing is in order,” James muttered, tossing his hair from his face. “May I have this dance, Sir Francis?”

“I believe that’s my question to ask,” Francis smiled as he stepped in close to place his hand on the small of James’ back.

“I was raised to believe a woman should control her own destiny. Even on the dance floor,” James’ jovial tone was laced with a bluntness that made his words ring true, and pressed his hand into Francis’. It was palm to palm, not one atop the other as it should be, and Francis squeezed James’ fingers as the music box tinkled in to life. 

The first dance was ruined by frequent bouts of laughter caused by James almost knocking a ornament from a delicate side table with an exuberant swing of his skirts, the mirth continuing simply from catching the other trying not to smile.

The second dance was much better. They had laughed away their nerves on the first turn about the parlour and their feet had become accustomed to the idea of springing about the room, which they accomplished with what Francis might dare call grace. 

They danced more than three, but the exact number was beyond Francis to recall. The afternoon was lost in laughter and soft kisses in passing, of purposefully bad dancing and breathless pivots about the room with skirts flying. Of Francis pretended to stumble and using the deception to grasp James about the middle and lift him, twirling him around while James laughed in delight and peppered Francis’ face with kisses.

* ***** *

James had been laughing to himself over a letter for the past half an hour. He had gone from leaning against the fireplace in the study like it had been built solely for the purpose of allowing his elbow to rest upon it, to sprawling over a chair set in the corner of the room. He had one foot on the floor, and the other hooked over the arm rest, jiggling it every so often in amusement. 

Francis had given up trying to write a reply to the _Royal Astronomical Society_ about his coming talk on the magnetic field so far north, and instead found himself sat back from the desk watching James. There had been a giddiness about James since he had been let loose upon ladies fashions, a happening which Francis had encouraged for the sake of James’ own contentment but had found himself unexpectedly (and maybe foolishly so) enraptured. Every fine, delicate part of him that had survived a life at sea was only exaggerated by soft silk, the cut of the clothes showing off the shape of his shoulders and the narrowness of his waist, and accentuated the elegant curve of his back. Yet for all that, it was the glitter in his eyes that had captivated Francis wholly.

James smiled fondly at the last paragraph and turned the letter over before sorting the pages back into order. He sighed, and then let his head roll to the side to look at Francis.

“Sitting behind a desk suits your air of authority,” he observed with a smile.

“I shall keep that in mind.”

"Have you finished your letter?"

"No. You were being far more interesting."

James raised an eyebrow and turned back to the papers in his hands. "It is a letter from Dundy. I am sure he is making up half of these things in the knowledge they would make me laugh.”

“Of course you would not do the same,” Francis shook his head even as he sent thanks to Le Vesconte for every piece of foppish, ridiculous amusement he had given James over the past four years. 

“I simply elaborate, and relay a story in an amusing fashion,” James said as if Francis was being dense, and stood easily to come and stand at Francis’ side. “Although the latest exciting happening in my life is not something I can write to Dundy in letter,” James smiled, trailing his fingertips through Francis’ hair. 

“I hope you would not tell him in person, either.”

“I might show him.”

“Wh-WHAT!” Francis thundered, snatching James’ hand away from his face. 

“I am speaking of the pastels and watercolours you have bought for me! What else could I mean?”

“You are a tease and a rouge,” Francis grumbled, planting a kiss to James’ palm before letting it go.

James hummed, and in a smooth movement slung his leg over Francis’ thighs and seated himself in his lap. “Daisy will be busy preparing Lunch,” James said, laying his arms over Francis’ shoulders. “And as you are already distracted from your letter…”

“And as you are preventing me from finishing it,” Francis smiled, resting his hands on James’ thighs. 

James ducked his head to brush his lips over Francis’ to whisper, “You have found me out, sir,” against Francis’ mouth before kissing him.

Francis smoothed his hands up James’ thighs, fitting his fingers to the curve of his backside as he gripped his hips and pulled him in closer. Francis had to tip his head back to keep kissing James who gently cupped the back of his head and curled into him, shifting his legs so he could rock his hips down against Francis.

It was slow and lazy, kisses full of playful licks and nips and soft words that became even softer laughter when the chair started to creak softly underneath them. “Imagine if the chair were to brake beneath us,” Francis whispered, smiling when James snorted inelegantly and pressed his face into Francis’ hair. 

They fumbled with one another’s trousers, tugging open the buttons to free their pricks from their linens. James sighed softly, pulling Francis’ hand to his mouth to lick a filthy stripe up the middle of his hand, twirling his tongue over the tips of Francis’ fingers before curling his hand around both of their cocks. 

“Oh yes,” Francis breathed softly as their cocks slid together, squeezing gently just to make James start and moan before twisting his hand over them. He encouraged James to keep rolling his hips with the hand still on his backside, ducking his head so he could smell the fine oils in James’ hair and on his skin, laying kisses against James’ throat through his cravat. 

James choked on a moan, gripping Francis’ shoulder and the back of the chair, breathing heavily through his nose. They had to be quiet, as quiet as they had been on board ship, and Francis, as he gave up his grip on his own prick to concentrate on frigging James, found himself entranced by the sheen of sweat on Jame's temples and the clear effort on James’ face to remain silent. 

James let out a great breath, sucked in another one, then pitched forward to bite at the shoulder of Francis’ coat as he shuddered, Francis only just catching the wetness in his hand to stop it staining their clothing. 

James breathed heavily while his hips still jerked in little phantom sparks of pleasure, and then pushed himself upright. “Sailors hands,” he whispered, catching Francis by the wrist and pulling out his handkerchief to wipe his spill so carefully from Francis’ fingers it made him fidget under him.

“James,” Francis breathed, feeling the burn of the heat in his dark eyes as James looked at him. He dropped his handkerchief carelessly to the floor, and the next second was sliding down between Francis’ legs to join it.

“ _James_ ,” Francis hissed more insistently, as startled and burning with want to see James on his knees for him as he had been the first time. 

James took his cock in hand, leaning in so his warm breath ghosted over the tip. “Yes?” he asked smoothly, and Francis could only nod in reply and reach out to touch his hair. 

He did not grab or guide James’ head like one might do with a doxy, he simply rested his hand on James’ head as he kissed the tip of Francis' prick, then lapped at the ridge around the top, then put his mouth on him.

Francis widened his legs, giving James’ shoulders more room. He gasped when James shifted in closer and began working his mouth down Francis’ prick, pulling back to the head a few times before committing to his course. The gasp Francis let out when James' nose brushed the ends of his shirt tails was loud enough that he had to swallow it down, and he let his chin fall to his chest to try and stifle a groan when James began to bob his head in his lap.

James smoothed his hands up Francis’ calves and over his knee’s to rest on his thighs, long fingers digging in every time he filled his mouth with Francis’ prick. He hummed whenever he did so, almost as if he was contented, and Francis had to will his hips not to buck and force his cock down his throat. James had suggested that such treatment might be welcome, but Francis would not abide it, instead pushing James’ hair out of the way and tucking it behind his ears as he felt heat begin to bubble in his gut.

“James,” he said as a warning, pushing at his shoulder to make it clear, and James pulled off his prick with a wet, lewd sound. He was flushed and panting, mouth red and wet, and he smiled toothily up as Francis as his hand took up the task of moving over Francis’ prick until he had to bring his sleeve to his mouth to hide a grunt as he came with a roll of his hips. 

He breathed through it, toes curling and uncurling in his shoes as he was stroked until the last tremor ran through him, then allowed himself to sag into the chair as James went about setting them both to rights. James laid his cheek on Francis’ thigh when he was done, breathing deeply a few times before dropping a kiss there and going to sit back on his heels before he remembered the desk at his back. 

James made to stand, but Francis beat him to it, holding out his hands to help James to his feet. James huffed when he was upright, brushing at the knee’s of his trousers to hide the fact he had been kneeling, and tossed his hair from his face when he straightened. His lips were still very red, and his eyes were still very bright, and Francis was crowding him back against his desk without thinking. 

“And what of your letter?” James asked gently, hands going to Francis’ waist as he perched on the edge of the desk. 

“Damn the letter to hell,” Francis said firmly, even as he held James’ face in his hands and kissed him.

* ***** *

The pitch of a ship that did not come and a creak of timber that did not sound pulled Francis into wakefulness.

He was not yet used to the muted rhythms and sounds of life on land, yet it was something he suspected he would get ample chance to acclimatise himself to in the coming years. A process that might not be as pleasant or rewarding as the one which found him welcoming waking up in a spacious bed made crowded by another body. 

James had rolled onto his back during the night and was flopped out so he was almost spread-eagled upon the mattress, although his hand still lay curled against Francis’ chest. His thin lips were parted around his steady breaths, his face peaceful and free from the cares all persons carried with them, even if he and Francis carried more than most.

Francis reached out to the lock of hair that had fallen over his brow and pushed it back, trailing his fingers along the faint threads of silver that were growing from the spot where he had once bled from his hairline. He moved close enough to catch more of the rich, faintly floral scent that seemed to linger on both of their sheets these days, and curled his hand gently around James’ loose fist. 

Not all mornings were spent luxuriating like this, they were men unused to laying about in bed even when doctors or common sense might tell them otherwise. Unused time and laziness were abhorrent to those in the Navy, and yet sometimes, as it was now with James so peaceful next to him, Francis felt he could permit the laxness.

He watched James a while; the smooth line of his throat that lead to the twisted neck of his nightshirt, each precious breath he took followed by an exhale that was as soft as the waves upon the shore, the faint flush of warmth and life on his cheeks. 

A fancy took Francis then, and he closed the distance between them to lay the whisper of a kiss against his temple and then to the corner of his eye. 

James’ breath caught lightly, dark lashes shifting across high cheekbones as he turned, curling his legs as he angled towards Francis. He swallowed visibly, the shift of his Adams apple drawing Francis’ gaze down to his throat and then further still until it lingered on the graceful lines of his collar bone that had been revealed by his night shirt. 

The twist of James’ hand under his drew Francis’ attention back to his face, and he found James’ warm eyes looking upon him. The memory of laying awake on freezing rocky ground listening to James' laboured breathing, selfishly praying that the heart beating weakly under his palm might struggle through until morning, was still very vivid to Francis, and he could not find it in himself to be embarrassed by being caught admiring James as he slept so soundly.

“Good morning,” he said, voice quiet and rough from sleep. 

“Good morning,” James smiled, adjusting their hands so the palms slotted together with ease. “Please tell me you have not been laying awake gazing at me and thinking me handsome.”

“Heavens no. I was simply wondering how one as slim and clean as you could possibly snore in such a manner,” Francis teased.

“I do not!”

“You’d compete with a whole dockyard.” Francis could not keep a grin from his face when James sent him a look of horror, laughing when he got poked in the chest.

“I do _not_ snore unless I have drunk too much Claret. And now you have riled my vanity!”

“If that is so, can I now whisper to you about how delightful you look in my bed?”

James’ eyes brightened slightly as he levered himself closer to Francis. “If you allow me to tell you how how delightful a bed it is to be in, as it holds you. How it delights my heart and my eyes and my body and my very soul.”

Francis felt as if a delicate, bright, relentless light as threatening to burst forth from his chest. He was not sure what it felt like to be cherished; he had never considered himself someone who might be capable of receiving such a thing, in fact had not received many soft emotions in his life, but he suspected it might feel like this. He tightened his grip on James’ hand unless emotion get the better of him, and yet he felt so very giddy that he could not resist saying, “You may.”

James laughed softly, the sound which had warmed Francis on many a night he thought he might freeze to death. “You arse,” James muttered, tucking his face into Francis’ neck. “I love you.”

“As I do you,” Francis whispered into his hair as James slipped his arm about his waist and pulled Francis close.

* ***** *

Harry Goodsir, who had spent nearly all of lunch talking at length with James about all sorts of scientific things, suddenly became quite demure when they retired to the parlour. Francis had thought that it was maybe James offering him Whiskey in front of Francis that had caused the reticence, or he had realised how his enthusiastic conversation had dominated the meal. Or maybe a mixture of both.

The mystery was solved when James asked, as he handed Francis a teacup and went to pour drinks for himself and Harry, what the naturalist had coming up upon the horizon. 

“Oh. Well. I am...” he grimaced and Francis braced himself for sad news. “Enquiries have been made, supported by my brother John, for a book to be written. About my observations.”

“A book!” James smiled down at Harry as he pressed a glass of whiskey into his hand. 

“That’s excellent news, Harry!” Francis said, pleased as anything for the man.

“I should say it is!” James agreed. “You’ve kept that awful quiet, haven’t you?”

“It’ll be no great tome,” he assured quickly, holding out his glass to knock it against’s James’ then tipping it towards Francis who raised his cup at him. “Just a report on all the discoveries made in the natural sciences and such. Descriptions of the _Esquimaux_ and what I was able to gain of their culture. If not their language,” he said with a tightness to his voice, a sadness passing over his features before nodding to Francis. “Which I would not claim to be an expert in.” 

“You know that myself or Mr.Blanky would fill in any of the gaps you still might have,” Francis reassured him gently. “You did very well in the time you had.”

“Oh…” Harry breathed, and Francis felt like a fool for not treading more carefully around the subject of Lady Silence. He shot a glance at James who had come to sit next to Harry, and was glad for the softness of his demeanour towards the other man. “Maybe after the book is written, they take such a long time...“ Harry straightened, and turned his bashful smile around the room. “No doubt it shall pale into comparison beside the biographies and memoirs of your deeds.”

James let out a bitter laugh. “Now listen here, my good man. We all did deeds, both brave and unsavoury, in the name of survival. Your bravery and skills were just as invaluable as those of Francis and myself.”

“Hear, hear,” Francis agreed. 

“Even more so, for am I not sitting here but for your care and watchfulness?”

“It was simply my duty,” Harry protested, echoing what he had said over a year ago in Toronto when Francis had thanked him for James’ life.

“As it was mine, as your Captain, to see you sat here in London, fit and well,” James said softly. He leant in close to Harry to clap him on the knee, an action that Francis fancied he saw make a blush tinge Harry’s cheeks above his whiskers. “If my name, such as it is, or Francis’, can lend aid to this endeavour, then consider it done, old boy.”

“Just say the word,” Francis assured, smiling warmly at Harry. 

“Oh, well I...yes. Yes I would appreciate that greatly. Thank you.”

“Then consider it done, old boy!” James repeated, giving Harry’s knee a squeeze as he sat back.

“You - James. You had a skill with the microscope, I remember, and took great interest in the luminous blubbers we pulled up. If you would care to write a small recollection of such things…”

“In my unprofessional and unlearned capacity?”

“I have seen the - excuse me,” Harry turned to indicate the desk littered with drawing materials set in the corner. “I remembered you telling me about your drawings, and Cap... _Francis -_ familiarity shall come naturally to me one day I am sure -was kind enough to show me a few. The care and sensitivity with which you have drawn both men and landscape from memory is remarkable. Truly. You may not have studied such things, but you have a care for them. In fact...might I ask to use some, for plates?”

Francis grinned into his tea cup as James gaped at Harry, who was nervously neatening down his curls. “I...Well. I say,” James blustered for a moment, lost for words. “T _he Geographical Society_ and _Naval Gazette_ took a few of the ice and ships and such, so I...of course? Of course!” James laughed, looked at Francis who knew he had pride clear in his expression, then grinned at Harry. “I shall give up the Navy entirely and become an artist at this rate!”

“You certainly have the look of one,” Francis said as Harry laughed.

“Indeed. A romantic elegance of bearing that suits the arts!”

“Now, now,” James said, obviously pleased as he sat back against the sofa cushions. “If you’re going to sit here and compliment me Harry, I’ll just _have_ to invite you to stay to dinner!”

Harry stayed for a pleasant hour more at least, only leaving when he had to go and meet with the publisher who was interested in his book. James offered to go along to give his opinion on the monies offered and also to put the weight of his standing behind Harry, and had darted off to change his shoes when Harry had agreed to his company. 

“If I may say so, I am glad to see James in such good humour and spirits,” Harry said quietly as he collected his hat and outer coat from Daisy. 

“He has been very buoyant recently,” Francis agreed, not letting his mind wander to James’ swishing about the house in fine gowns.

“When we last spoke in person about his drawings, I said to him that they might ease some of his darker memories and dreams. I am no doctor of course, it could have all been rubbish, but my experiences on the Passage…”

“I understand,” Francis agreed softly. “We all of us have come back haunted, and no doctor nor confessor can know how that feels better than those who were there.”

Harry nodded as he buttoned his coat, pondering something a moment before looking at Francis carefully. “I am...glad you have one another. Your closeness, your connection, is no doubt what helped lead us away from all our disaster and towards rescue. I am so very glad it remains now.”

Francis stared at Harry Goodsir, a man with far more nerve than his quiet demeanour might suggest, and nodded. “Thank you.”

“Not just for Captain Fitzjames’ sake, although he is a fine man. But your own sake. I am gladdened to see that you are content.”

Francis shifted on his feet, nodded, and then patted Harry on the arm as James’ door thumped closed two floors up. “I am content. So very much so. And hope you will be content one day also, Harry.”

“I will be,” Harry said, with a sure little nod. “I am sure of it.”

* ***** *

Francis made a point not to break step as he strode into the drawing room, even though he was rather surprised to find James curled around a book while wearing a dress. Daisy was still in the house and, even though at this hour she was not likely to venture into the drawing room unless called for, James had always been careful that they were alone in the house when he dressed in such a way. 

He didn’t comment on it, just brushed his fingers over the shawl James had wrapped about his shoulders as he bent to kiss his hair. “Hello _.”_

“Francis,” James smiled up at Francis as he dropped down into the chair opposite the sofa. “Did you not see Ross?”

“No, he was out. I’ll try again tomorrow," Francis stretched his legs out in front of him, letting his eyes trail over James who was the image of gentle relaxation.

His feet, clothed in white stockings, were peeking out from the bottom of the striped blue skirts, slim ankles crossed over one another. He was slouched slightly against the arm of the sofa, his shoulders and chest wrapped in a fine, if slightly stained with age, shawl whose ends were tucked about his waist. Francis found that he liked it very much. It lent itself to the air of comfortable ease in the drawing room, and gave the appearance that James was at ease, not 'acting up' to his choice of attire. Not that Frances minded the dancing, nor the attempts at playing the piano, and certainly not the energetic romps, but James simply being James would always be his preference.

"Where did you come by the shawl?"

"Oh. It was in a chest of things William had sent to the house for safekeeping from the children. I think it was mama's…" he fingered one of the fine edges, and then turned a smile on Francis that was not as sad as he thought it might be. "Louisa Coningham. She would have understood all this in a moment, had I dared tell her." James smoothed his hand over his skirts, then abruptly waved his book at Francis. "Elizabeth sent with it a selection of novels published while we were gone."

"Saints preserve us. What's that called, then?"

" _Jane Eyre_. It's rather _scandalous_. Its about a governess who is wooed by her handsome and mysterious widowed employer, a passionate and insistent gentleman, _who_ it turns out…"

Francis let James’ words wash over him, not taking much in beyond the expressions darting across his face. He recalled what Harry had said about their contentment, and found it to be most vibrantly true in this moment. The passage had taken far too much for Francis to ever be thankful to it for forging them into the men they were today, and no matter how true it might be he would never cite it as the cause for them both finally finding their serenity. 

Well, James was talking so vigorously that serenity might not currently be the right word, but Francis did not know what else to call it. He was only a sailor after all, and an old one at that. All he knew was that seeing James truly content made him perfectly happy. 

He stood and hauled his chair closer to the sofa so he might sit with his hand held out to James, who took it without hesitation. 

“What is it?” he asked, dark eyes catching in the soft firelight and becoming as golden as honey. 

“Simply wished to hold your hand,” Francis said with minimal blushing, smiling to himself when James looked inordinately pleased.

“Well,” James said, running his thumb over Francis’ knuckles. “It just so happens that I like having my hand held by you.”

Francis’ heart was a flutter in his chest like he was a boy facing his first love, and turned in his seat so he could face James. “Read to me?”

“This? Oh, you would hate it. Detest it. Snatch it from my very hand and cast it into the fire.”

“I don’t mind,” Francis said, electing to ignore the dramatics. “You read very well.”

James gave him a look that was so gentle Francis ached with it, then flipped open his book one handed and began to read. Francis looked at his fine profile lit by the fire, the light catching in the curl at his temple, and raised James’ hand to his mouth to kiss the bone of his wrist.

James did not stop reading as he smiled, the shape of it clear in his smooth baritone that wrapped about Francis as he closed his eyes, letting himself sink down into the warmth of James’ voice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeaah, Goodest Sir had to make an appearance. And what of it!
> 
> NOW WITH AMAZING [ART BY MY WONDERFUL FRIEND LENKA](https://matt-j-freeman.tumblr.com/post/187861597742/that-one-scene-from-pianodoesterrors-let-the)
> 
> [Here](http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Rv9bER0yYrE/SxlmGuTn33I/AAAAAAAAAPc/b4O8ZyIHftM/s320/1966-76-cst-1122.jpg) is the day dress I based James' second one (obvs the man would have a whole wardrobe) on. But in blue not red, because if James is going to have a red dress then it's going to be RED and scandalous.
> 
> Shout out to [this](https://pianodoesterror.tumblr.com/post/186707252750/maelikki-okay-billywick-and-i-are-on-our-4th) wonderful piece of art for inspiring a lil bit of this fic. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has commented and read and left kudos. I wrote this on a whim, and found myself enjoying it so much!

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me on tumblr at pianodoesterror.


End file.
